


Swords and Shields: Smutty Prompt Fills for Blackwall/Arya Lavellan

by queenofkadara



Series: The Griffon and the Halla: Blackwall & Arya Lavellan [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arya is a horny little hellion, Blackwall is as adorable and considerate as ever even when he's wanking, Blackwall playing it a little rough and Arya loving it, Dom!Blackwall, F/M, Fluff, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Healing (LOL), Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: Smutty and/or fluffy prompt fills for Blackwall and Arya Lavellan, from Smutty July 2018 onwards.Ch1: prompt - caught masturbatingCh2: prompt - good boy gone bad ;)Ch3: prompt - Hellooo, Nurse!Ch4: prompt - on the floorCh5: 3-word prompt - game, river, stayCh6: 3-word prompt - grace, dark, holdingCh7: prompt - kiss on a scarCh8: prompt - good morning kissCh9: a short SFW drabble with art!Ch9: self-prompt - "Her Perfumed Sanctuary"Ch10: NON-smutty drabble, with art!Ch11: prompt - "do that again"Ch12: prompt - "good, chasing, prayers"





	1. Caught Masturbating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks masulevin for the ask! xoxo

Blackwall watches Arya’s slender hips with besotted appreciation as she strolls toward the stairs. “I’ll be back shortly,” she calls over her shoulder. 

The door to her quarters makes a sonorous _thunk_ as it closes, and Blackwall stretches luxuriously in the Inquisitor’s ridiculous Orlesian bed. Arya insists on using the common baths even though Josephine offered her a tub of her own. Blackwall appreciates his elven lover’s principles, but a selfish little part of his mind sometimes wishes she had a bath of her own. They could spend more time together if she could bathe up here. 

An enticing image floats across his sleepy mind: a porcelain tub in the middle of the bedroom. His Arya, barefoot and bare-skinned, her dressing gown floating from her fingers to the floor as she steps into the tub. Those slender, callused archer’s fingers stroking the skin of her neck as she lathers up…

His morning wood twitches with interest, and he reaches under the covers and runs his palm along the length of his rigid shaft to calm his rising libido. Arya has been run ragged all week making plans with her advisors, and Blackwall hasn’t wanted to push his luck by seeking her attention in the mornings. She’s got enough on her plate already without his monstrous appetite to contend with.

Unfortunately, his stroking palm has the opposite of its intended effect. As he smoothes his hand along the length of his manhood, the errant hint of fantasy suddenly takes flight. He can see her clearly in his mind’s eye, her soapy hands sliding down over the peaks of her breasts and the sloping planes of her belly, her neck arching back as her fingers aim sharp and true to the heart of her pleasure, her lips parting as she gasps his name…

Blackwall inhales deeply as he grasps his shaft and tugs. He imagines her parted knees, her teeth nipping the edge of her plump lip as she pleasures herself. The friction of his palm against his cock is both soothing and dissatisfying; it’s Arya that he wants, her smooth and slippery heat and her slender weight across his lap, but he can’t ask this of her right now. She’s too busy to spare more time for him. The stroke of his own heated palm will have to do. 

He pumps his fist along the length of his cock with increasing ardour as his fantasy Arya arches her back and spreads her legs wider. He tightens his grip and imagines the tightness of her heavenly pussy. His eager hips are lifting of their own accord, lifting into the pleasure of his own hand, and a light sweat breaks across his forehead as he thinks of her curves and her planes, the sharpness of her voice as she comes-

“What’s going on here?”

Blackwall jolts in startlement. He snaps his eyes open to find Arya there, her eyebrows lifted and a broad smile on her face. 

He whips his hand away from his cock and hastily sits up on one elbow. “I was just - I - why are you back so soon?” he stammers. He can feel the blood rising to his cheeks, and he’s never been more grateful for his sodding beard. It might be able to hide some of his humiliation.

“I forgot my towel,” she replies. “And I have to say, I’m glad I did.” She steps closer to the bed, then slowly peels the blanket back to uncover his shamefully throbbing cock. Her heated gaze traces lazily over his body, and a fresh flare of perverse desire steals his breath, even as he feels increasingly embarrassed by being caught in the act. 

To his surprise, she shifts onto the bed to kneel between his knees and smirks. “Well?” she chirps. “Don’t stop on my account.”

He frowns in consternation and tries to ignore the eager clamouring of his cock. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she looks rather… well, _businesslike._ “You’re just going to… watch?” he says uncertainly. 

Her smirk widens into a saucy smile, and she shrugs. One sleeve of her dressing gown slips off her shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. “I might join in. If I feel like it.”

Blackwall swallows hard. Her dressing gown is thick velvet and cotton, but he can still tell that her back is slightly arched. He can feel the subtle shifting of the mattress as she slowly slides her knees apart. Her posture is authoritative and her smile cheeky, but he can detect these tiny signals of her desire, and they’re more than enough to tip his mood from embarrassment back to excitement. 

He reaches between his legs and grasps his shaft, and Arya’s impudent expression instantly melts into carnal interest. He watches her carefully as he strokes the length of his cock. Her amethyst eyes glitter with heat as she stares fixedly at his hand. Her lips flush from light pink to a deep rosy glow as she nibbles them unconsciously. 

He slides his fist along his length in an increasingly rapid rhythm, then slowly lifts his hips toward her. The rising of his hips is a wordless language she understands well; she swiftly shucks off her dressing gown, then slides her fingers into her smallclothes. 

Blackwall pants with increasing urgency as he watches the hidden movement of her hand. This is both better and worse than his fantasy: she’s here in front of him, her golden skin shifting as she arches into her fingers and her eyes hot and heavy on his face, but her smallclothes are a tiny offense. He wants them off. He wants to _see_. 

Through the rising of his pleasure, he finds the breath to speak. “Please, my lady - take those off,” he begs. “I want to see you.”

She smiles wickedly despite the flushing of her cheeks. “Now who’s the one who’s watching?” she teases, but she cedes to his request. She pulls her smalls off and tosses them aside, then kneels between his thighs again and spreads her legs. 

He stares at the apex of her legs with unabashed ardency as she strokes a delicate finger between her chestnut curls. Her swollen bud is plump and eager, peeking out coyly from its hood like it’s begging to be touched, and he watches attentively as she runs two fingers carefully along the edges of her clit.

Blackwall’s lust surges higher still as he realizes what she’s doing: she’s teasing herself with a delicate touch. He knows her lustful face well, and he sees the desperation there as she tortures herself with a slow and sinuous stroke. He doesn’t have the same discipline; the sight of her straining body is like tinder to a flame, and his zealously pumping fist is a gentle spark. He strokes himself harder and faster, throwing sparks on the fuel of Arya Lavellan’s lustful arching, her trembling belly and her gasping breaths, the taut column of her neck-

Suddenly she throws her head back and cries out in delight, her fingers swirling between her legs in a furious caress, and Blackwall explodes with all the fury of a vial of Antivan fire. He slams his head back into the pillow and groans as his pleasure makes itself evident in hot spurts across his belly. 

He heaves a huge sigh of satisfaction, then gasps as Arya suddenly leans forward and licks his seed from his belly with a firm stroke of her tongue. Goosebumps ripple across his skin, pulling a fresh thread of desire in their wake, and he slips his fingers gently into her pixie-short hair. “You don’t need to do that,” he says breathlessly. 

Arya smiles lasciviously and straddles his hips. She braces her palms on his pecs and smiles down at him. “I do whatever I like,” she purrs. “And you know what I’d _really_ like?” She leans down slowly until her breasts are pressed against his chest, then brushes his ear with her lips. “I’d like a second round. And this time, your cock is mine.” 

Her words strike him in the belly like a spear of lust, and he inhales sharply. “Yes, my lady,” he says eagerly. “I’m yours to command.” 

He feels her smile against his cheek as he slides his hand over her hip and between her legs. A fantasy of Arya will suffice when her duties keep her bound and tied, but no dreamlike image will ever compete with the joy of his Dalish lover’s undivided attention.


	2. Good Boy Gone Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #193 from this list: [this list:](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/post/175459804678/250-erotic-prompts) Good Boy Gone Bad. The ultimate prompt for my darling Baewall, IMO.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Blackwall frowns as he studies the war table’s map. Three handwritten notes are pinned to the tiny town of Val Gamord: a perfect note in Josephine’s impeccable hand, a slightly curled scroll with Leliana’s sharp cursive, and a fastidiously folded note in Cullen’s oddly messy scrawl. 

Blackwall glances at Arya, who stands beside him with folded arms. “Cullen’s plan is the best one,” he says. “Send the Wardens to defeat the darkspawn. It’s what we - what _they_ do best.” A tiny pang of guilt wrenches his chest as he corrects his pronoun; Arya has forgiven him his lies, but the sense of chastisement remains.

Arya shifts her weight to one hip and eyes him speculatively. “I’m not sure. Leliana has a point. It’s an odd place for darkspawn to appear, no?” She pushes away from the war table and slowly wanders around behind him. 

He frowns again. “Yes, but you should neutralize the threat before investigating. Or else there may be no one left to… to save…” He trails off absently as Arya’s arms slide around him from behind. The slender fingers of her left hand trail over the buttons of his overcoat as her right hand slides down to stroke his belt. 

The gentle pulsing light of her left hand matches the sudden kick of his heart, and he reaches down to capture her right hand. “What are you up to?” he asks shrewdly. 

“Me? Nothing. I’m simply getting strategic advice on strategy, obviously,” she replies. Her tone is innocent, but her body betrays her words; she presses sinuously against his back, and he can picture the arching of her spine all too clearly. 

His overeager cock begins to straighten with interest, but another pang of guilt rings an alarm in his brain. Cullen and Cassandra still haven’t quite forgiven him his lies, and he doesn’t want to risk further anger from the Inquisitor’s inner circle with bad deeds. He gently pulls Arya around by the hand until she’s facing him. “Strategic advice on strategy, hmm?” he drawls. 

Arya smiles cheekily at his skeptical expression, then shocks him by deftly lifting herself onto the war table. She pulls him close by the collar until he’s standing between her legs. “Yes indeed,” she purrs. “ _Very_ strategic.” She pulls him closer still. Her hand is a fisted command in his collar, her damask lips slightly parted with anticipation as she leans forward, and Blackwall sways toward her like a magnet before his senses return. 

He leans away from her with no small amount of regret. “Arya, this is a bad idea,” he warns. “Your advisors could come in at any moment.” 

“I know,” she says. “Isn’t it exciting?” She releases his collar and slowly slides her fingers down to his belt. 

He puts his hands over hers to stop her. “Please, my lady,” he pleads weakly. “Not here. There’s not enough time.” 

A wicked grin lights her face. She spreads her legs wider and slides closer to the edge of the table - and closer to _him_ \- until they’re nose to nose. “Not enough time for what exactly?” she whispers. “What do _you_ have in mind?” 

_Nothing,_ he wants to say, but the lie sticks behind his teeth. She’s deliberately provoking him, presenting her willing body and making him imagine all kinds of things: Arya stretched across the war table map, her spine arching over the Free Marches as he peels her smallclothes down, spreading her thighs over the Waking Sea so he can devour her wetness, her palms flat on Ferelden and Orlais as he fucks her from behind…

His cock jerks eagerly in his pants, and suddenly Arya’s lips are at his ear. “You know you want this,” she breathes. “ _I_ know you want this. You want me, here, right now, on this table.” 

He gulps in a breath. Her thighs are firm and fine under his hands, and he shouldn’t be touching her, truly he shouldn’t, but his hands move of their own volition as she continues to whisper in his ear. 

“You want to strip me bare and spread me wide on this table. You want me naked, stretched across this map with my ass in the air so you can fuck me hard. Don’t you?”

It’s like she’s read his mind, and his cock is throbbing from her sultry words. Harsh, heavy breaths assault his ears, and it takes a moment for him to realize they’re his own. 

She pulls back slightly and tilts his chin up to look into his eyes. “You’re a good man, Blackwall. You’ve done so much good for the Inquisition,” she says. “But right now, I want you to do something a little bit bad.” 

She rolls her hips forward and arches her back until her breasts brush his chest, and it’s like she’s broken a barrier: he’s not sure if it’s her dirty words or her trusting ones, the dirtiness of her smile or the trust in her eyes, but Blackwall can no longer resist. 

He grabs her hips and kisses her hard, his tongue stroking against her own as he slides his fingers into her pixie-short hair. Arya gasps against his lips and wraps her legs around his waist. He grinds eagerly into the cradle of her hips, and a tiny moan of pleasure slips from her throat, spurring him to further heights. 

She clasps his neck with one hand as he pulls her hips against him, and soon she’s panting feverishly, her eyelids at half-mast as she clenches her nails against his neck. He knows his Dalish lover’s face better than any, and he can tell she’s primed for something more - for _him._

Blackwall steps back, and Arya’s eyes fly wide, her expression imploring and desperate until he reaches for the buttons of her trousers. 

“Yes,” she breathes, and lifts her hips helpfully as he unfastens the buttons on her pants. His fingers drift across her quivering abs, his thumb sliding down to graze the edge of her smalls, lower to her auburn curls-

A deep, sonorous _bang_ fills the air as the war room’s huge double doors slowly open. Blackwall snatches his hands from Arya’s body as though he’s been burned, and she’s off the table and on her feet before the intruder makes it through the door. 

Cullen raises his frowning face from the sheaf of papers in his hand, and his expression moves through a cycle of emotions as he spots them: surprise, then disapproval as his eyes fall on Blackwall’s face, then a guise of neutrality. “Inquisitor!” he says. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I was seeking Blackwall’s advice about that problem in Val Gamord,” she replies. To her credit, her tone is perfectly neutral. He glances down at her bland expression; the only hint of their indiscretion is in the pinkness of her cheeks. 

Naturally, the single-minded commander doesn’t notice. “Ah,” he says. He gazes at Blackwall appraisingly. “Any thoughts?” 

Blackwall subtly clears his throat. “Your plan would be my choice, ser,” he says gruffly. “I may not be a true Warden, but when darkspawn are the problem, the Grey Wardens are the ones you need. Your proposal is the right one, in my opinion.” 

Cullen’s expression softens slightly. “Thank you,” he says. “Fortunately, the Inquisitor agrees. I was just about to initiate the plan. The lieutenant is on her way here now.” 

“Excellent,” Arya announces. “We’ll be on our way, then. Carry on, Cullen.” She strides purposefully from the room with Blackwall close at her heels.

As soon as the war room’s doors close behind them, he backs her against the wall and pens her between his arms. “‘The Inquisitor agrees’, eh? You didn’t need my advice at all.”

She bites her lip saucily and raises her chin as Blackwall crowds her with his body. “I always need your advice,” she retorts breathlessly. “I was just seeking something different this time.” She bites back a gasp of delight as he presses his thigh between her legs. “You’re so nice all the time,” she pants. “You can stand to be a little naughty now and then.”

She grinds subtly against his thigh, her spine arching toward him like the wild little wanton that she is, and her desperation is contagious, whipping up something equally wild in his blood. He gently grips her throat, and his entire body thrills at the moan of pleasure that escapes her lips. “Naughty is what you want?” he growls. “That’s exactly what you’ll get. Come on.” He releases her throat and takes her hand, then all but drags her down the hall.

They pass through Josephine’s office with the bare minimum of polite greeting, then move into the great hall. Arya tries to head toward her quarters, but Blackwall pulls her purposefully across the hall. 

He feels a tug on his fingers as she balks. “Where are we going?” she whispers.

He doesn’t reply. He pushes open the door across from Josephine’s office and leads her up the stairs, then through the door to the loft where Vivienne usually resides. 

As Blackwall had hoped, Vivienne isn’t there - probably meeting with some snooty nobles from Orlais - but Arya gasps and pulls more forcefully on his hand. “Blackwall, _no_ ,” she hisses. “No way.”

He stops and pulls her firmly against his body. “You wanted bad? _This_ is as bad as it gets.” He slides his hand down to cup her ass and lowers his lips to her ear. “You know you want this,” he purrs. “ _I_ know you want this. You want to lean over that fancy daybed on your hands and knees while I fuck you hard. Don’t you?” 

She’s panting against his ear, her fingers betraying her as they clench convulsively against his shoulders, and he ruthlessly presses his advantage by pulling her hips against his thigh again.

Arya whimpers - a soft, pleading sound - then finally capitulates. “Yes, yes, all right, _yes_ ,” she hisses. “But hurry.” 

He traces her pointed ear with his tongue, then nips her earlobe before releasing her. He lightly slaps her butt as she totters toward the day-bed. “Trousers down,” he commands. 

She swiftly obeys his command, dropping her pants and smalls to her ankles and bending over the daybed. She lowers herself to her elbows, and Blackwall loses his composure as he eyes her semi-prostrate form; the moisture shining between her thighs is the most delectable invitation, and the height of her hips is perfect, exactly the right position for him to take her hard. 

He shucks his own trousers and grabs her hips, pumps his shaft between her legs twice, then slams his cock in deep, and Arya just barely manages to stifle her scream against her fist. Blackwall pumps into her swift and fierce, and she twists her fists in the fabric of the daybed, her hips bucking back to meet him. 

Gradually he slows down, drawing his cock in and out of her with a teasing slowness, and Arya jerks her hips and twists her spine pleadingly. “Blackwall!” she gasps. “I need more. Please-”

“Shhhh,” he whispers. He leans over her and brushes his fingers over her lips. “Quiet, my lady. You can’t let the rest of the castle hear.” He traces his fingers over her throat, then along her arm to gently guide her fingers between her legs. “Touch yourself,” he whispers. 

She obeys, her fingers circling over the swollen nub between her legs. He grinds slow and sweet into her tight heat, and her breaths sift short and sharp between her clenched teeth. 

Suddenly she gasps. “Blackwall, help me,” she whimpers. “I can’t stay quiet, I can’t- you have to help me…” 

He instantly knows what she means. He reaches toward her mouth again, and Arya confirms his hypothesis by grabbing his hand and covering her mouth with his palm. The loose grip of his palm seems to set something free inside of her lithe elven body; she gasps into his hand, and he catches the vibration of her pleasure cry in his palm as she comes with a fitful shudder.

Her orgasm is his perfect cue. He grips her hip with one hand and her delicate face with the other, then resumes his fast and furious fucking. She slams her fist against the daybed and bucks wildly back against him, and Blackwall clenches his jaw against his own gasp of pleasure as his climax washes over him in a searing wave of rapture. 

They barely take a minute to calm their breathing before moving into a routine of highly efficient cleanup: he pulls free from his elven lover and swiftly hands her a kerchief from his pocket, and she quickly mops the evidence of their deed from her thighs before buttoning her pants back up. 

Restored to a state of apparent decorum, Arya saunters toward the balcony. “We should come up here more often,” she says. “The view is really quite spectacular.” Her tone is perfectly innocent, but she shoots him a wicked grin, Blackwall feels his face turning pink as he grins back at her.

He sidles up beside her. “Lovely it is,” he agrees, but he isn’t thinking about the view. The sight of his Arya with her hair slightly mussed and her crooked little smirk is the loveliest damned thing in this castle.

She smiles up at him, her amethyst eyes twinkling with happiness. But before she can say another word, a cultured voice interrupts. 

“My darling Inquisitor! How lovely,” Vivienne says. She floats over to join them and shoots him a brief glance of acknowledgment. “Messere Rainier,” she says, then pointedly returns her attention to Arya. “How can I help you, my dear?”

Vivienne’s back is fully turned to him, a complete and clear dismissal, but for the first time, the Iron Lady’s judgment doesn’t bother him at all. He boldly steps around her until he’s facing Arya again. “I’ll leave you to your conversation,” he says. He turns to Vivienne and politely takes her hand. “Madame Vivienne,” he says with a gallant half-bow - he doesn’t miss the surprised leap of her eyebrows - then turns back to Arya. 

“Your Worship,” he says, then shamelessly pulls her into his arms and kisses her. 

Arya grips his shoulders and instinctively returns his kiss. When he finally releases her, her face is flaming red but her grin is broad and goofy, and Blackwall smirks in satisfaction before swaggering away. 

He can feel the daggers of Vivienne’s stare in his back, but he doesn’t care. Arya Lavellan’s opinion is all that matters, and her shining approval is clear as glass. Arya’s teasing influence has shown him something new: that being bad can feel so fucking _good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and love to Kitzie for brainstorming with me! XD xoxox


	3. Helloooo Nurse!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for my darling Kitzie (@hellarcanine on Tumblr) - 'helloooo nurse!'  
> Decided to flip the gender roles on this one - hope you enjoy ;)

Blackwall gallantly takes Arya’s uninjured right hand, then grips her arm for support as she almost tumbles off her horse. “Careful, love. Easy now,” he warns. 

She chuckles as she stumbles against him, then gasps as her sprained left wrist presses against the dragonbone plate on his chest. “ _Fenedhis!_ That fucking hurts,” she hisses. She tucks her left arm protectively against her chest, then suddenly smiles up at him. “You called me ‘love’,” she says playfully. 

Her long lean body sways toward him salaciously, and Dorian chuckles at her uninhibited ardour as he and Bull begin the usual nightly camp set-up. Blackwall clears his throat self-consciously, then guides her onto a log by the campfire. “You sit down, Your Worship,” he says quietly. “Keep that wrist close. I’ll bring you some food.” 

Arya pouts, but seats herself comfortably on the log nonetheless. “Back to ‘Your Worship’, am I? I should fall off my horse more often, it seems. Get you to loosen up a bit.” She leans her head back and smiles as her eyes drift shut. “Mmm. Fire smells so good,” she mumbles. 

Blackwall watches her in consternation as he digs some rations from his pack, then glances accusingly at Dorian. “What exactly did you give her?”

“Ancient Tevinter secret,” Arya interjects, then inhales deeply of the firesmoke and sighs with satisfaction. 

Dorian grins as he replies. “Just a little infusion of deep mushroom and dragonthorn for the pain,” he says. “Barely more than a child’s dose.” His grin is tempered with a hint of guilt as they watch her swaying dreamily on her log. “I might have overestimated her… constitution, as it were,” Dorian admits. “Perhaps elves react more strongly to the potion. We should keep watch on her tonight - make sure she doesn’t stop breathing, that sort of thing.”

Blackwall stares at him in alarm. “Stop _breathing?_ ”

“It won’t happen,” Dorian assures him. “Probably. Almost certainly,” he adds hastily as Blackwall glares at him ever more fiercely. “We’ll just take turns keeping an eye on her tonight, that’s all. She’ll be fine.” 

“No. No turns. _I’ll_ look after her,” Blackwall says belligerently.

“We can share the watch, you know,” Bull pipes up as he crawls out of the tent that he and Dorian will share. The qunari warrior gazes kindly at him with his one good eye. “You don’t have to be a martyr. This wasn’t your fault.”

Blackwall clenches his jaw before replying. “I’m not being a martyr,” he grunts. “I’m just… she’s… I’ll take care of her.” He sits down beside Arya and hands her a piece of hearty oat-nut travel loaf.

“Oh, let him do it,” Dorian says to Bull - loudly enough for Blackwall to hear. “He wants to gnash his teeth and be all dramatic as he nurses her, then let him. Our Lady Lavellan does love a good tortured soul, after all.” 

Blackwall scowls, but doesn’t speak as he tenderly adjusts the makeshift splint on her wrist. He had to use a Venatori’s torn robe and broken staff, and it’ll have to do until they return to Skyhold tomorrow.

For the umpteenth time today, he wishes that Solas had accompanied them during this trip. If Solas were here, he could tell them whether or not it was all right to magically heal her sprain. But without knowing how the magic of her mark will interact with healing magic, they’re stuck with more mundane methods of treatment.

He strokes the Inquisitor’s neck and silently chastises himself for allowing her to come to harm. He should have had her back; he should have gotten to her more quickly. But he’d been surrounded by a pack of swordsmen, and one of those sneaky bastards with a knife had snuck up on her, and then she was leaping off the top of a ruin to escape her assailant and catching her fall by landing wrong on her wrist-

Blackwall takes a deep breath through his nose to calm the residual anxiety that’s leaping in his belly. He wraps a protective arm around Arya’s shoulders and kisses her temple. _My fault,_ he thinks. _Should have been there. What use am I if I’m not right there to protect her…_

She finishes off the last bite of her loaf, then snuggles into his shoulder. She tilts her chin up and kisses the side of his neck. “Let’s go to our tent,” she whispers. 

“All right,” he agrees immediately. She need to rest, after all; it’ll be a long and uncomfortable journey from the Western Approach back to Skyhold with her injury. He solicitously helps her to her feet.

“Let us know if you change your mind,” Bull says, and Blackwall nods a quick thanks before gently guiding her into their tent. He eases her into a sitting position, then pulls off her boots and carefully helps her remove her leather overcoat, avoiding her tender left wrist all the while. 

Satisfied that she’s comfortable enough for sleep, he slides over to her bedroll and pulls the cover back. “Come, my lady. Get into- Arya! What are you doing?”

He hurriedly crawls back to her side, but he’s too late; she tosses her pants aside and woozily pushes herself to her knees, and Blackwall wonders how in Andraste’s name she got her pants off so damned fast with only one good arm. She clumsily starts pulling her linen shirt off with her right hand, and he catches her arm as she starts to tip over. “Arya, stop,” he pleads. “It gets cold here at night. You need to keep your clothes on.” 

She shifts close to his kneeling form and slides her bare knee between his thighs. “You can keep me warm,” she purrs. “Those big warrior’s hands of yours… You’ll keep me warm in all kinds of places.” 

Suddenly the penny drops. _This_ is why she wanted to come into the tent. 

He gently pushes her back and looks into her eyes. Her pupils are dilated and her focus is lazy, and an odd combination of tenderness and anxiety squeezes his heart as he eases her into a sitting position. “Not tonight,” he says apologetically. “You need to rest. Come-” 

“I won’t rest without you,” she says petulantly.

Blackwall smiles despite his worry. “You drive a hard bargain, my lady.” He swiftly pulls off his boots and his armour, then sits at the head of the bedroll and pats the space between his legs. “Come on then,” he says indulgently. “I’ll keep you warm.”

She perks up, then shifts over to join him and settles back against his chest. She heaves a happy sigh as she tucks her head back against the crook of his neck. “This is nice,” she murmurs. “You’re all warm… and beardy… and hard and warm...” 

He chuckles softly as she pulls his arm around her shoulders… then sighs as she tugs his hand down over her breast. “Arya,” he pleads. “We can’t do this, not tonight. You need to sleep.” 

She presses his hand firmly against her breast and cranes her head back. “But my wrist hurts,” she whimpers. “I need help.”

“Let’s get Dorian to chill it for you again,” he says weakly. 

“You told Dorian _you_ would take care of me,” she says shrewdly. “Besides, Dorian can’t help me like you can.” She arches her back, pressing her tailbone back against his crotch, then tilts her head back further and presses a kiss to his neck. 

The firmness of her nipple is evident through her thin shirt, and to his shame, he can feel his cock hardening and straining against his pants at the insistent pressure of her bottom. He silently scolds himself for being an undisciplined brute, then tries to shift his lower body away from her before his arousal becomes obvious. “Arya, I can’t…”

“You can,” she assures him. She firmly tucks his hand inside of her shirt. 

Blackwall swallows hard as he caresses the pebbled hardness of her nipple. Arya releases his hand, then reaches around behind his neck to slide her fingers into his hair. 

_I can’t, I can’t,_ he thinks. This is the opposite of what she needs; she needs to sleep, not to be riled up by his errant hands. And yet he can’t resist the softness of her skin, the bead of her nipple between his fingers and the sweet swell of her breast as it fills his palm. 

Arya arches smoothly into his touch, then slides her bare legs apart. Her fingers tighten in his hair. “Touch me,” she whispers.

The heat of her words ghosts across his throat, sending a ripple of excitement down the back of his neck, and he gazes pleadingly down at her lovely face. “My lady, please…”

Her amethyst eyes are unfocused but fierce. “I’m not your lady,” she retorts. “I’m your lover. And I’m injured. And there’s only one thing that will make me feel better.” 

She lifts and twists her hips, and he suffers a sharp pang of guilt as his traitorous cock pulses in excitement. Her movements are smooth and sinuous, as seductive as if she’s _not_ impaired, but he can’t be fooled; that fucking potion Dorian gave her is playing havoc with her judgment, and Blackwall would be too many kinds of bastard if he took advantage of her now. “Arya-”

“Sex,” she says succinctly. “Sex will make me feel better.” 

He can’t help it; he blurts out an incredulous laugh. Her body might be smoothly seductive, but her tongue is blunt as a dull warhammer. 

Arya growls - a cute little sound, though he’s sure she doesn’t mean it to be - then pulls his hand from her shirt and tugs it down over her belly toward her smallclothes. “You think I’m joking, do you? I assure you, I’m quite serious.” 

“I know you are,” he says hurriedly. “I just - it’s not right, don’t you see? I can’t rightly… I… oh...” He trails off dumbly; her insistent grip has pushed his fingers into her smalls and past her auburn curls, and his tongue becomes tied as the tips of his fingers find the hot slickness between her legs. 

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, then relaxes back against him and spreads her thighs even wider. “Blackwall, please,” she begs. “Don’t leave me like this.” 

Her words are a haunting plea designed to break him down. He clenches his jaw - _be strong,_ he thinks - but her lifted hips are a clear command, and he’s never been able to ignore a direct order from the Inquisitor. 

He gently slides two fingers along her slick folds, and she releases a breathy hum of pleasure. Her hips tilt eagerly toward his hand, and the next thing he knows he’s stroking her pussy, his fingers sliding and slipping in her heavenly heat. 

She undulates her hips like a gentle ocean wave and his fingers follow suit, sliding smooth and sweet around the budded glory of her clit. She tightens her grip in his hair and drops her head back against his shoulder, her subtle mewls of satisfaction pouring straight into his ear and rendering him witless. 

_No,_ he scolds himself, even as he runs his fingers along her moist heat from cleft to clit. He needs to keep his head on straight. His rock-hard cock is clamouring for attention, an involuntary jerking inside of his pants, but he must keep it under wraps. He can touch his elven lover and bring her to a soporific satiety, but that’s as far as this can go. 

She jerks against his stroking fingers, then twists her chest insistently. Her lips graze his jaw in a gentle caress. “Touch me,” she breathes. “Put your hand inside my shirt.” 

Her demand is a terrible temptation, and a vague sense of hopelessness steals over him. But he’s already damned with his hand in her smalls; he might as well do as she asks. He carefully slides his left hand under her injured arm and into her shirt. 

“ _Yes,_ ” she moans. The word is long and languid and perfectly happy, a drop of pleasure that slides into his ear and down his throat to pool deep in his abdomen, and Blackwall can’t help but feel a perverse sense of pride. She may be slightly addled with pain potion, and he might be an ass for letting her put his hands all over her, but at least she’s happy. 

Her breath grows sharp and short against his neck, and he holds his own breath as he continues his relentless rhythm between her legs. When she comes with a gasp and a jerk of her hips, he nudges her head to the side with his nose and kisses her flushed cheekbone. 

She shudders and moans beneath his hands, her fingers gripping his hair in a painful twist, and he waits until she goes limp against his chest before speaking. “Come on, love. Into the bedroll now,” he whispers. “You need to sleep.” 

“No,” she declares. Then she shocks him by pushing herself off of his chest and onto her knees.

She leans forward on her right elbow, her left arm tucked up against her chest, and as he watches gormlessly, she presses her chest toward the bedroll and arches her back like a cat in heat. “My wrist hurts,” she says cheekily, “so I need you to fuck me.”

Her perfect ass is in the air. The moisture of her arousal is dampening the crotch of her smalls. She wiggles her hips slightly, and he stares at her in complete despair. “Arya, please,” he begs. “I cannot do this. I just… I can’t.” 

She whimpers desperately, then lowers her chest even lower to the bedroll. “You have to,” she insists. “Blackwall, _please._ I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t breathe without your cock inside of me.”

His selfish heart thrills at her every word, but he swallows his raging libido down with a huge effort of will. Her words are wind while she’s impaired, and he has to remember this. 

She pounds her right fist petulantly against the bedroll. “Fuck me right now,” she demands. 

He inhales deeply through his nose and prays for fortitude, then says something he’s never said to her before. 

“No,” he announces, and she immediately falls apart. She keens with distress and writhes her hips in despair, then starts to reach her injured left hand down between her legs. 

“Maker’s balls,” he swears. He hastily grabs her hips and rolls her onto her back, then tucks her left arm back up against her chest. “Arya, stay still!” 

“Nooo,” she whines. Her knees are closing on his waist, her right hand grasping at his neck to pull him close, and he wonders vaguely if she’s been possessed by a desire demon. She thrusts her hips up toward his bulging crotch, and finally Blackwall does the only thing he can think of to stop her: he peels her smallclothes off and buries his face between her legs. 

A delighted moan trembles from her throat, and she instantly relaxes beneath his mouth. She threads her fingers in his hair and subtly lifts her hips, and Blackwall faithfully follows her cues: he laps with a gentle touch when she undulates slow and smooth against his lips, and he strokes her with a firmer tongue when she fucks his face.

She climaxes within a few short minutes, her visceral cry muffled by her own fisted hand, but Blackwall isn’t finished; he knows his Dalish lover, and he knows this orgasm will only goad her higher. Before she can come down from her delirious peak, he dips two fingers in her moisture, then slides his fingers inside of her.

She jolts and arches viciously, her pleasure cries smothered by the back of her hand, and Blackwall strokes her inner walls with utmost care. A subtle twist of his wrist, a gentle curl of his fingers, and soon Arya is thrusting against his hand with all the fury and grace of a horsemaster.

He stares at her with hapless devotion. She’s single-minded with pleasure, utterly lost to the touch of his fingers, and he’s jealous of his own hand for being the focus of her passion.

He watches as the breath catches in her throat, her abs trembling with tension, and as she gasps in a desperate breath, he surges forward and kisses her hard. She digs her nails into his neck and screams into his mouth, her inner walls clenching around his fingers, and Blackwall savours her rapture like the finest honey wine. 

The tension gradually flees her body, and a few long, languorous moments later, he gently releases her lips to gaze down at her face. Her eyes are closed as she smiles, a lazy joy that stretches from cheek to cheek. Her fingers lightly stroke his jawline. “My Blackwall,” she murmurs. Within less than a minute, she’s fast asleep. 

He gently smoothes her hair back from her forehead. She looks so damned innocent in repose, her knees bent and her right fist tucked beneath her chin like a child. He thinks of the horny little hellion who was begging for his cock mere minutes prior, and has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. 

Then the slow, soft sound of applause floats over from the second tent.

“Well done,” Dorian calls out softly. “Top marks for healing techniques, ser. You must give lessons to the surgeon back at Skyhold.” 

“Hell, I’d take a lesson in that,” Bull interjects, and they both laugh dirtily.

Blackwall rubs his suddenly scorching face. He can’t reply; anything he says to them will only be used against him later. 

He looks down at Arya again, then smiles to himself. He carefully arranges the second bedroll over her sleeping form, then settles down beside her to watch her for the night. 

Bull and Dorian might rip on him for his so-called healing skills, but as he gazes besottedly at his sated elven lover, he can’t bring himself to mind.


	4. On The Floor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for @alyssalenko on Tumblr (and on AO3!) - on the floor. Forgive me, but a huge helping of prompt #209 (knife to the throat) made its way into this piece as well. xoxo

“Are you ready?” Blackwall asks.

Arya settles into a defensive stance. The candlelight on her desk throws flickering shadows across her cheeky grin. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she chirps. 

He nods seriously, then lunges at her with the dagger in his right hand. 

She grabs his wrist and shoves his hand back towards his hip. But as soon as he grasps the back of her neck with his left hand to drag her close, she lessens her grip on his wrist.

He strikes in toward her belly with the practice dagger, stopping just short of her navel. “You have to hold on, my lady,” he says gruffly. “You can’t let go of this hand.” He gestures with the blunted weapon in his right hand.

“I know, I know,” she pants. “It’s startling when you grab my neck, that’s all.”

“I know it is. That’s why you have to practice,” he insists. “Go again. Don’t loosen your grip.”

She steps back and bends her knees slightly in preparation, but her smile is mischievous. “You’re very bossy when you’re training,” she purrs. 

He frowns chidingly at her, and she rolls her eyes and laughs. “All right, Ser Blackwall, I’m being serious. Come at me.” 

He lunges at her again, and this time she keeps her grip on his right wrist when he pulls her head down. But when he twists his right wrist and jabs at her again, her grip loosens. 

“Argh!” She groans as she steps away and stomps one foot in annoyance. “I can’t…”

“You can,” he says firmly. “You know what you need to do. You’ll get better. You just need to keep trying.”

She sighs, and Blackwall gently runs his thumb along her tattooed cheekbone. “I need you to be safe,” he says softly. “If I can’t be by your side, or if something happens to me-”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” she interrupts. “You’re the strongest man I know.”

He gazes at her seriously until she drops her eyes. “Physical strength isn’t everything, my lady,” he says softly. “I need to make sure you can defend yourself.” 

She sighs again, but nods her head and steps back. “All right. I’m ready,” she says, and her face is serious this time. 

Blackwall nods, then darts the dagger toward her again. 

She grabs his right wrist with both hands, her grip firm as she locks his wrist against his hip. When he pulls back on his arm, she shoves forward in an attempt to throw him off-balance.

He uses her momentum against her and pulls hard with his right arm. Her locked grip follows his yank, and he hauls her arms over her head and spins her around. He drags her back against his bare chest and bands his left arm tightly around her waist. 

She bursts into giddy laughter as he brings the knife up to her neck, her body going limp in surrender, and he can’t help but smile as he lets her go. “That was better,” he says. 

“It was _awful,_ ” she expostulates. “Here, show me again what you would do. I’ll pretend to attack you.” 

He hands her the practice dagger, then stands and waits. As soon as she jabs in toward him, he grabs her forearm and forces it down. 

She drives into him relentlessly, hunching low to shove her shoulder against his chest and fisting her hand in the fabric of his trousers to try and unbalance him. He slides his foot behind her legs, then twists toward her and trips her on his foot. 

Arya squeals and releases the dagger as he lowers her to the carpet in a controlled fall. By the time she’s flat on her back and pinned beneath him, the dagger is in his hand again and pressed to her throat. 

She gasps for breath, her eyes locked on his face, and he exhales roughly as he stares back at her. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, her collarbones rising and falling with the weight of her breathing, and without quite meaning to, his eyes fall on the budding of her nipples through her loose linen shirt. 

Her petite breasts lift temptingly as she catches her breath, and he jolts guiltily when she breaks the tense silence. “Show me that maneuver one more time?” she says.

He forces his gaze back to her glowing violet eyes and nods. “Of course, Your Worship.” He stands and helps her to her feet again, then steps back to await her attack. 

She bites her lower lip as she adjusts her grip on the dagger. Her eyes are bright and hot, drawing his attention more surely than the Breach itself, and he almost misses her lunge.

The tip of the dagger almost reaches his belly in his distraction, and he grabs her wrist at the last second. She shoves her shoulder hard against his abdomen as she tries to wrest her hand from his grip. She’s all chaos and wildness, a wriggling little beast slamming into his chest and kicking at his shins, and her every strike is like a spark setting a shivering warmth to life in his belly.

He dips his shoulders down and grabs her around the legs. She shrieks as he pulls her feet out from under her, and she spills onto her back on the floor with his palm cradling the back of her head. 

She lets out an _oomph_ as he straddles her hips and pins her wrists to the floor, then bursts into breathless laughter again as the practice dagger drops from her fingers with a useless clatter. “ _Fenedhis lasa,_ ” she curses, then drops her head back and laughs some more. 

Blackwall has no idea what she just said, but her tone makes her meaning clear. His unruly gaze travels across her body as she chuckles beneath him. Her linen shirt is askew, revealing the flat planes of her stomach, and he’s visited by an inconvenient wish to bite the exposed column of her neck.

He lifts his hips slightly so she won’t notice the straightening of his erection. He really should release her captive wrists, but he can’t quite make himself let her go. He takes a deep breath in an effort to calm the stirring in his gut. “Again, my lady?” he offers.

She smiles at him wordlessly, her eyes dancing with amusement as they scan the bare expanse of his chest. By the time her gaze lands on his swollen crotch, his face is prickling with a heated combination of lust and guilt. 

“Do it,” she says.

His eyes snap back to her face with a pang of shame. He’s supposed to be training the Inquisitor, not ogling her supine body like a slavering adolescent. “Do what?” he says weakly. 

She arches her back slightly and lifts her hips beneath him. “Take me,” she breathes. “I know you want to.” 

He finally eases his grip on her wrists, more out of guilt than because he wants to. “But you need to practice-” 

She suddenly bucks her right hip, and Blackwall tumbles to the side more out of surprise than any true technique on her part. Before he can do more than catch his balance on one unsteady hand, she’s straddling him and wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“No more practicing,” she declares. “Take me, Blackwall. I want you to.” 

She presses those lovely breasts against his chest. Her tongue flicks teasingly across her lower lip, and the sheer temptation of her is more than he can take: he clasps the back of her neck in one hand and kisses her crimson lips. She returns his kiss with a voracious appetite, her tongue delving sweetly to taste his mouth, and Blackwall basks in her hunger for a long, blissful moment.

Then he feels a cold, fine line of pressure against his neck. 

He opens his eyes to find Arya grinning at him with the practice dagger pressed to his neck. “Gotcha,” she whispers.

Blackwall chuckles darkly. “Dirty tactics now, is it?” he asks. 

She shrugs irreverently, her shit-eating grin growing by the second. “How else is a little elf like me supposed to take down a big strong human like you?”

Her tone is innocent and completely sarcastic, and he huffs in amusement before grabbing her knife-bearing wrist and rolling her onto her back again. She cackles raucously as he yanks the dagger from her hand, then breaks off with a playful snarl as he forces her thighs apart with his knees.

He twines his fingers with hers and stretches her arms above her head, then grinds his rock-hard cock against the juncture of her thighs. Her fierce little smile melts instantly into an expression of sheer lust, and she cranes her neck back and undulates gracefully against his crotch.

Blackwall breathes hard as he presses into the cradle of her hips. She arches eagerly beneath him, and yet she’s struggling with her arms, her wrists twisting and her fingers clenching to free themselves from his own. Something dark and bittersweet is waking at the back of his mind, something that he’s always hidden away like a bottle of contraband Tevinter port, but the writhing of her lithe and captive form is ruthlessly drawing it to the surface.

He lifts his hips away from hers, and she gasps with dismay and opens her eyes. Her lips curl in a bestial little sneer as she glares at him. “Take me!” she snaps.

Her words are a clear challenge, a perfect maelstrom of fight-and-fuck, and Blackwall finally gives in. He shakes her hands roughly. “Don’t talk,” he orders. “You want a bossy trainer? That’s what you’ll get.” 

Her eyes snap up to his face, and her face is so wildly joyful that he almost grins back at her. Instead he scowls and taps her right hand. “Hold this wrist with your other hand. Do it now.”

She follows his instruction instantly, and he presses her captive hands to the floor with his left hand. With his free right hand, he ruthlessly shoves her linen shirt up to bare her breasts.

She gasps at the roughness of his touch, then cries out as he rubs the coarseness of his bearded face across one nipple. He takes her tender nipple between his teeth and she mewls with pleasure, her thighs tensing against his knees. 

His right hand slides firmly down across the taut and jumping muscles of her belly. She pants wildly as his fingers slide unerringly into her smalls. When he plunges one finger into her slick and willing pussy, she releases a wild scream that he smothers with his tongue. 

Her wrists jump with tension beneath his hand, but he tightens his grip to hold her still. He swirls his fingers inside of her, the tips of his fingers caressing every tight centimetre of her slick inner walls, and she moans shamelessly into his mouth. 

He pulls his fingers from her heat and slides the length of his finger against her clit, and she jolts and holds her breath. “Oh fuck yes,” she whimpers, then gasps again. 

He bites her neck in punishment, and she moans loudly at the sting of his teeth. “I told you not to talk,” he growls. 

She breaks into near-hysterical giggles, then cries out in despair when he removes his hand from her smalls. “ _Please,_ ” she wails, then instantly clamps her lips shut. She stares up at him with pleading eyes, and he returns her gaze unflinchingly until she starts to writhe and jerk her hips. A thin keen of want trembles from her throat, but she doesn’t speak. 

Finally Blackwall relents and drags off her smalls, and she releases a wordless cry of pleasure as he strokes her budded clit. “Good,” he growls. “Remember your training, now.”

He’s making very little sense in this game they’re playing, and Arya’s sudden grin tells him that she knows it too, but neither of them cares; all he cares about now is the slippery little pearl of her pleasure that he plays with his finger, and the increasingly desperate panting that’s pouring from her throat. 

She takes a sudden strident gasp of air, then her entire body convulses as she screams in climax. Her cries echo through her chambers, and Blackwall is sure they’re ringing down to the lower levels too, but he can’t be bothered to stifle her. _Let the castle know,_ he thinks with uncharacteristic smugness. The Inquisitor is undone beneath him, her supple body bowed with pleasure from the work of his hands, and he’s more proud of himself than he cares to admit. 

He watches the ecstatic shuddering of her limbs as he roughly unbuttons his trousers and shucks them off. He releases her hands and drags her close until she’s astride his hips, then pulls her arms behind her back. 

Her desperate breaths are short and sharp like throwing knives, and they pierce the darkness of his desire and render him even rougher. He tugs her arms slightly and tips his chin up to stare at her flushed face. “You like this, do you?”

She nods wildly, her face blazing with lust, and he kisses her hard as he rocks himself up against her slick folds. She whines and wiggles against his chest, and he leans back just long enough to look her in the eyes again. “Only speak if you want me to let you go. Understood?”

She nods even more wildly than before, and Blackwall sheathes his cock inside of her with a long, savage thrust. 

Arya throws her head back and cries out with rapture, and he slicks his tongue across her breast as he fucks her fast and hard. He collects her gasps and groans like perfect gems in his mind, each sound coming together piece by piece to build his own growing climax.

She releases a long, breathless moan, then leans all the way back so her shoulders are touching the floor. Her arms are still restrained by his hands, forcing her back into a deep and tempting arch, and Blackwall gapes deliriously at the marvelous expanse of her body. Her nipples are triumphant little peaks, the arching of her ribs flowing into the tempting bowl of her belly, and Blackwall frees one of his hands from behind her so he can skim his palm along the length of her pristine skin. 

She undulates her hips slowly against his cock and whimpers with frustration, and Blackwall understands her ire; the angle of their hips is awkward now, a difficult position for either of them to thrust, but he’s so captivated by the sight of her that he doesn’t give a fuck. His hand moves across her sternum, his thumb teasing her nipple and pulling a pleading whine from her throat. His mind is fuzzy with dominance and desire, and before he realizes what he’s doing, his hand slides up to her throat. 

He gently grips her throat, and she releases a very sharp cry. 

Suddenly uncertain, he starts to move his hand away, but Arya gives a sudden sob. She hauls one arm out from behind her back and scrabbles at his wrist, pulling his hand back up to her neck. “ _Please,_ ” she sobs. “Please, Blackwall, I want…”

He obligingly curves his fingers around the column of her throat, and she arches her back and absolutely _wails_ with pleasure. The sound resonates through his body, rendering him lightheaded with lust.

He shoves forward onto his knees and looms over her with his big brutish body. He roughly lifts her left leg over his shoulder to spread her wide. He tilts her chin back with the hand at her throat, plunges his tongue into her mouth, then slams his cock into her tight, slick heat. 

Her hand grips his hair, pulling hard as she bucks beneath him, and the pain in his scalp only inflames him further. He turns her head to the side and bites the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and she releases his hair with a cry of surprise. She braces her right foot on the ground and lifts her hips forcefully against him, a clear and eager demand for more, and he swiftly obliges her with a hard and furious speed. 

He’s gasping now, sweat dampening his temples as he pistons into her. Her own gasping breaths are sharpening, her whimpering exhales increasing in pitch, and all at once she throws her head back. “Blackwall, _yes!_ ” she screams exultantly.

The sound of his name in her ringing voice is like a mage’s spell, and the dark ward inside of him breaks, leaving him tender and desperate for her touch. His hand at her throat melts from a grip into a caress, sliding around to the back of her neck as he takes her lips in an adoring kiss. He pumps his hips thrice more, then his rapture takes him with all the dizzying height of a griffon’s wings.

“Arya,” he groans brokenly, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace. He releases her leg from his shoulder and clasps her precious face in his hands, his sweaty forehead flush to hers as he strokes her tattooed cheekbones. His knees are starting to hurt as the rugburn makes itself known, and he’s sure Arya will soon be feeling it too, but he’s too blissfully happy to mind right now. 

She breathes hard for a moment, her hands drifting across his shoulder blades in an idle caress, then suddenly breaks into breathless laughter. “Well, this was a productive training session,” she says. “We should train in private more often. I like your technique, my good ser.” 

She tilts her head back and laughs some more, her mirth growing stronger until she’s shaking beneath him, and Blackwall smiles helplessly down at her. This evening’s activities might have proven him a shoddy trainer, but tomorrow is a fresh new day. 

And Blackwall will happily spend every day training his Dalish lover in every way he knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my nameless fiancé who helped me practice the knife fighting bits. And maybe also the other bits. For science. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> [I’m Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to come and talk about Scaling the Wall with me! ;)


	5. Game, River, Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A three-word prompt from @thealexmachina on Tumblr: game, river, stay.
> 
> Thanks for the ask!! xoxo

Arya kneels by the river and cups her hands, then splashes her face with a sigh of relief. She rinses her face once more, then turns to look up at him with a smile. “Thank you for guarding me, Ser Blackwall,” she says. 

He shoots her a tiny chiding smirk; her tone is polite but her smile is cheeky. “You are most welcome, Your Worship,” he replies with mock formality, then continues to carefully scan their surroundings by the light of the moon. 

She splashes quietly by the riverside for a minute more, then there’s a silence. Blackwall turns to look, then frowns in consternation and takes a step closer to the river’s edge.

“Stay close, my lady,” he warns. Arya has taken off her boots and socks, and she’s ankle deep in the burbling river.

She sighs happily. “I hate shoes,” she announces. “It’s so nice to be barefoot again. That was one of the good things about clan life. Killing red Templars and darkspawn is not very conducive to having one’s toes out.” She shoots him a rueful smile, then rolls up the ankles of her tight leather pants with some difficulty.

She steps more deeply into the river, and Blackwall anxiously edges closer to the water. “Arya, please. We should go back to Dennet’s farm. Solas and Cassandra will be wondering where we’ve gone.”

“No they won’t,” she retorts. “I told them we’d be gone awhile.” She raises one saucy eyebrow, and Blackwall instantly feels his face heating with embarrassment. He can just imagine the disapproval on their faces at the thought of him and the Inquisitor whisking away like a pair of delinquent youths…

He jolts with surprise as a splatter of cold water hits his cheek. “I know what you’re thinking,” she teases. “Stop worrying. Cassandra and Solas understand. They’re probably the most romantic people in our little circle.” 

He snorts with disbelief - he can’t imagine where she gets such notions from - then is instantly distracted as the Inquisitor shucks her coat. 

She tosses her coat onto the riverbank and takes another step into the rushing flow of the river, and Blackwall’s shoulders slump with exasperation. “Arya,” he says warningly. “I beg you, stay close. It’s dark, you don’t know what’s lurking-”

“Blackwall,” she interrupts, “you worry too much. You need to relax! We cleared all the red Templars and demons from this area a couple of hours ago. You know it’s safe.” 

He purses his lips in displeasure. “That was hours ago,” he argues. “More men could have…”

He trails off as her elegant fingers gather in the hem of her fitted tunic. She peels her tunic off, and he watches breathlessly as her nipples tighten into hard little peaks in the cool night breeze. 

He opens his mouth to protest, but the words wither away in his throat.

She shoots him a smug little smirk. “Let’s play a game,” she says. “See if you can keep up with me. I’ll leave you a trail.” She tosses her tunic at his feet. 

He snatches the tunic up before it can get more than a little wet. _No,_ he thinks, _absolutely not._ Arya likes her mischief when she’s winding down; it’s her way of relaxing, of working out her anxiety after a difficult day. But this is not the time for mischief. They’re out in the fringes of the Hinterlands, and his arms are full of her clothes - how is he supposed to protect her when his hands are full of clothes? 

His stares in frustration at her half-naked form, bleached by the moon from its usual golden glow to a pearlescent ivory. She needs to stay close so he can protect her. He takes a deep breath to refuse her game.

“And what’s the prize if I win?” he says instead. 

He immediately snaps his mouth shut, horrified at his own lack of discipline, but a devilish little grin is already lighting his Dalish lover’s face. “That’s the spirit,” she purrs. She darts off through the water, fleet of foot despite the uncertain terrain of the river.

 _Maker’s balls,_ he thinks, more angry at himself and his errant cock than at her. It’s bloody dark except for the light of the moon, and he squints fitfully to catch the greenish glow of her palm.

As he follows her wraithlike shape, he hears a clinking splash; it’s the sound of her belt buckle hitting a rock in the river as she continues to strip.

 _Cheeky little minx,_ he thinks. He scowls as he’s forced to stop and pick up her belt, but he can’t deny the excitement that’s now making it awkward for him to run. “Arya,” he snaps. “Stay close.” 

“Come on, Ser Blackwall! You’re losing horribly,” she taunts. She laughs, a soft and teasing sound, and he follows her voice and her wet footprints up a brief rocky rise toward a small cave that they’d come upon earlier that day. 

He steps into the cave and spots her shadowed form with relief. Her hands are moving toward her waistband, but upon his arrival, her glowing amethyst eyes widen with a grin. “Oh no no no,” she pants, her fingers working madly at the buttons on her trousers as she tries to strip them off before he can draw close.

She’s too late. He dumps her clothes on the ground and lunges forward, grabbing her around her naked waist. “I’ve got you, you vixen,” he growls.

The cavern rings with her pealing laughter as he lifts her off her feet. “All right, all right, you win!” she cackles, then squeals as he rubs his beard against the back of her neck. 

He presses his lips to her ear. “What do I win, my lady?” he breathes. Her naked skin is cool and smooth like the gilded Free Marcher statues in Skyhold, and he watches with satisfaction as her lips part on a tiny gasp. 

She squeezes his forearms. “Put me down and you’ll find out,” she says. 

He sets her on her feet, and she surprises him by shoving him back against the wall of the cave. She presses against him in a sinuous wave, her lips a whisper from his own, and he parts his lips in anticipation of her kiss. 

She smiles and shakes her head, then swiftly unbuckles his belt and slides her hand into his trousers.

He chokes on a gasp as her palm cradles his balls. The inside of her silken wrist presses against the hardness of his shaft as she strokes his balls, then her fingers slide up to encircle his girth.

She firmly strokes his length, and he jerks his head back against the wall of the cave, his eyes squeezing shut with ecstasy. She shoves his trousers down to his boots, her nose skims the nest of wiry hair around his sex, he grunts eagerly as her hot tongue strokes his cock-

She takes him deep, the head of his cock sliding along her palate and into the blissful softness of her throat, and he groans with helpless pleasure. “Arya,” he moans.

She doesn’t reply; she can’t, not with her mouth full of his cock. Her hands slide along his thighs and around his hips to grab his ass, and she angles her head to take him even deeper. 

He gasps in a desperate breath. He cradles the back of her neck gratefully, his fingers sliding through her short auburn hair in a gentle stroke. In contrast, his lover’s mouth is anything but gentle. Her throat muscles squeeze his head as she swallows, and her lips are tight and firm as she pistons along his length. 

Her fingers, on the other hand, are the epitome of gentleness. She softly brushes his balls with her knuckles, a teasing and maddening touch, and he moans again at the surge of sensations: firm heat and pressure on his shaft, the swirling stroke of her tongue over his tip, the tenderness of her fingers between his legs… 

He wrenches open his eyes to look down at her, and the ethereal glow of those elven eyes nearly blinds him. She releases him briefly and grins - the hint of a cheeky tongue between her teeth - then she angles her head and sheathes his cock in her throat all the way to the hilt.

Her nose brushes his belly. Her nails press into his hips. Her silken breasts brush against his thighs as she arches into him, and with a gasp and a groan, he empties himself into the blissful heat of her throat.

He leans heavily back against the wall of the cave as his climax trembles through him from head to toe, then sinks to his knees in the aftermath. Arya sits back on her heels, a supremely satisfied grin on her face. 

Once he can breathe again, he lifts his face and is immediately assailed by her kiss. She clasps his jaw and slips her tongue into his mouth, and with a confusing bolt of desire and dismay, he tastes the faint bitter-salt of his seed at the tip of her tongue. 

She pulls away from him and stands. “Come on, now we really should get back,” she chirps.

She turns away, but Blackwall grabs her hips and drags her back toward him. She gives a squeak of surprise, then gasps prettily as he nuzzles her leather-clad crotch. 

Her fingers sink into his hair as he presses his lips against the juncture of her thighs. He inhales deeply, wanting to fill his lungs with her scent, but he can’t smell or taste or feel her through the protective leather of her trousers. He swiftly unbuttons the offending trousers and drags them down to her ankles, then authoritatively spins her around and pushes her back against the wall. 

“Your turn, my lady,” he growls. His greedy gaze traces the sheen of moisture that paints her feminine folds, then he presses his open mouth against her heat, eager to drown in her taste. 

Her fingers tighten in his hair, but he doesn’t mind; his focus is too intent on her visceral taste. His licks the length of her cleft, his lower lip sweeping a broad and hungry stroke in the wake of his tongue. A careful press of his tongue against her clit until she jolts and gasps, and he repeats the move again: lapping her slippery moisture, an open-mouthed kiss against her plump folds, a tender circle around her swollen little bud.

He savours the tension of her thighs beneath his hands. Her juices are seeping into his beard from the enthusiasm of his mouth between her legs, but he’s glad for it; he’ll keep this scent for later, a smug reminder of the game he almost refused to play but ultimately won in the sweetest of ways.

His lips slide against her tender flesh and his tongue swirls around her clit, and Arya comes with a guttural wail, her pleasure echoing through the tiny cave. He wants _feel_ her on the inside, to feel the clenching pulse of her orgasm in the tips of his fingers, but this dark and dirty cave is not the place.

Her hands fall bonelessly from his hair, and he sits back on his heels. She leans back against the wall, breast heaving as she recovers from her climax, and their eyes meet and hold with a tense and loaded hunger.

He swallows hard and rises to his feet, hastily pulling his trousers up along the way. He walks over to her clothes and gallantly lifts her tunic from the ground. “Come, my lady,” he tells her. “You started this game, and we have to finish it. In a proper bed.”

She laughs breathlessly as she pulls her trousers back up, then gets dressed more quickly than he’s ever seen her dress. She turns to him, her violet eyes dancing merrily, then takes his hand. “Stay close to me, my good ser,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to get mauled by a bear.”

He grins, and they set off to Dennet’s farm at a run. _Stay close to me,_ she says, but she needn’t even ask. 

Being close to Arya Lavellan is all he wants.


	6. Grace, Dark, Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three-word prompt fill from Tumblr for my darling @littlesnowarrow! 
> 
> The prompt: grace, dark, holding. I had something sweeter in mind for this prompt, but honestly Arya Lavellan has a mind of her own and neither I nor Blackwall can control her. #sorrynotsorry

Her fingers clench between his own, her fingertips pressing into his knuckles.

Blackwall squeezes her hand in kind. The heel of his palm gently presses her hand back into the mattress. “I’m watching,” he whispers. He strokes the angle of her naked hip with his other thumb. 

“Good,” Arya gasps. Her eyes are shut and her erratic breaths are escaping through her parted lips. He watches her besottedly, his adoring gaze sliding from her angled eyebrows to her beaded nipples, over her trembling belly and down to the juncture of her thighs where her fingers are diligently working. 

She slides her fingers low to dip into her own slick heat, then back up to circle her clit, and Blackwall swallows hard as he watches the movements of her hand. Her elegant archer’s fingers dance between her legs, a masterful play that matches their dexterous dance across the string of her bow. 

Truth be told, that’s what brought them to this moment: the pleasure he takes in watching his Dalish lover’s talented hands. 

It started with his gallant confession of admiration while she was training in the courtyard at dusk. He watched from a distance as arrow after arrow struck her targets with an easy grace. When her quiver was empty, he approached and took her hand. 

“You’re a pleasure to watch, Your Worship. You put every archer in Skyhold to shame. But don’t tell Sera I said so.” He dropped a chaste kiss on the back of her hand.

The corners of her amethyst eyes crinkled in a smile. “Well well, Ser Blackwall. I didn’t know I had a spectator.”

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he reminded her. “There’s always someone watching.” He glanced around at the mostly empty courtyard; most of Skyhold’s residents were eating supper at this hour. “But it looks like I’m your only admirer tonight.”

“Hmm,” she acknowledged, then took a step closer. “A solo admirer watching me from afar… sounds rather dirty, don’t you think?” 

Her hands were folded innocently behind her back, but the tilt of her chin was coquettish and her eyes were sly. Instantly his cheeks started to warm with a combination of excitement and embarrassment. “Not at all, Your Worship,” he stammered. “I just meant-”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupted. She stepped closer still until her chest brushed against the base of his sternum. “You like watching me pulling my bowstring, setting off my arrows to strike their targets.” She raised one auburn eyebrow. “What else do you like watching me do?”

Minutes later and here they are: stretched naked on her bed in the half-light, his right hand holding her glowing left hand captive and his greedy eyes scanning the lean length of her body as she strokes the swollen bud between her legs. 

He watches the swirling of her fingers for a moment longer, then lowers his mouth to her ear. “I like watching you, my lady,” he murmurs. “I like to see you touching yourself.”

“Mm-hmm?” She moans an encouragement, her voice strained as she arches into her hand. 

“That’s right,” he confirms, then drops his voice to a low growl. “I like to see you stroking your clit. I like watching while you make yourself wet, getting yourself ready for me.” 

She whimpers and nods furiously, and Blackwall’s cock pulses with excitement as her fingers circle her clit more quickly. He traces the pointed edge of her ear with his tongue, then brushes his lips to her cheekbone. “You want me to stroke my cock against you. Push inside of you and fuck you hard.”

“Yes!” she gasps. Her nails bite convulsively into his knuckles, and she tries to lift her pelvis toward the heavy bulge of his groin, but he pushes down with his hand on her hip to keep her still. 

“Easy, Your Worship,” he murmurs. “I can’t give you my cock until you scream for me.” 

She opens her eyes and pins him with a furious glare. “And if I command you to fuck me?” she snaps. 

Blackwall smiles. Her ferocity rivals that of a hungry dragon, but her fingers are still rubbing the sweet spot between her legs and her breaths are short and sharp. “I can’t disobey a direct order from the Inquisitor,” he replies with mock gravity. “But I know that’s not what you want.”

“No?” she demands, her voice sharp with frustrated desire.

“No,” he confirms. “I know you want to come. I see how close you are. You’re imagining my mouth between your legs, aren’t you? You’re thinking about riding my face. You’re thinking about fucking my tongue with that sweet pussy.” 

She arches her back and whines, her desperation sharpened by his filthy voice in her ear. He’s never really been one for this kind of talk, and he’s not sure where his confidence is coming from, but with every gravelly word he whispers against Arya’s cheek, her body arches further, her fingers swirling faster over the swollen bud of her pleasure until - until… 

She throws her head back against the pillows and cries out with pleasure. Before her climax can fritter away, he’s between her legs with his cock stroking against her slippery heat. She’s mewling with need and grabbing for his hips, he’s grasping the root of his manhood to slide inside of her and oh-

He groans as her wetness envelops him, so hot and so fucking _tight_. Arya plants her feet on the bed and lifts her hips with a vicious force, taking him so deep that their hips smack together with the satisfying sound of skin-on-skin. 

He gasps helplessly, trying hard to keep up with her frenzied pace, but it’s difficult when the perfect heat of her is so damned distracting. She claws at his arms, her breasts jumping as she fucks him hard, then she growls with frustration and shoves his shoulders. 

He rolls off of her, then suddenly he’s flat on his back with his Dalish lover rising over him like a goddess reborn, her body undulating gracefully against him like a tidal wave. Her grips the smoothness of her hips, guiding her against his cock as she takes him in a fast and rolling rhythm.

He stares unabashedly, drunk on the sight of her and the feel of her and the hot and salty scent of her. The column of her neck is craned back, and his eyes draw a smooth line from her chin to her sternum, lower across the dip of her belly, and straight to the spot where his body joins with hers. 

“You’re still watching?” she asks breathlessly, and he slowly lifts his gaze to her face. Through the haze of his rising pleasure, he manages to smile. 

“Always, my lady,” he pants. “I could never look away.”

She grins briefly at him, her hips still rocking relentlessly against his own, and he’s finally forced to close his eyes as his climax builds in his core, swirling and growing until it bursts into bloom in his belly, his calves, behind the darkness of his eyelids. 

He gasps for breath, then releases a happy little _oomph_ as Arya’s weight collapses across his chest. Her shoulder is pressed to his lips, her fingers sliding into his sweat-dampened hair as her lips brush his temple, and Blackwall beams in utter bliss. 

There’s certainly a time and place for watching. But Blackwall has never been so glad that Arya prefers to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pop by on [Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and say hi if you'd like!


	7. Kiss On A Scar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for @elfsplaining on Tumblr, who suggested "kiss on a scar" for Blackwall. This was a fun one! xoxo

“What about this one?” Arya asks.

She strokes Blackwall’s left forearm, and he glances at the fine slash of a scar under her fingers. “Dagger. Tavern fight,” he says. He points sheepishly to another mark at the corner of his eyebrow. “This is from the same fight. A few shards of glass.” 

She shoots him a wry smirk. “Indiscretions from your youth?” she teases.

He manages a weak smile in return. His days of tavern fights aren’t far enough in his past for his liking. “I was old enough to know better, my lady,” he says softly.

Her teasing expression softens, but she doesn’t press him. She points to a row of tiny crescent-shaped marks that line the upper edge of his right pec. “And these?” 

She blinks innocently, and he shoots her a chiding look. “You know what those are from,” he drawls, but he can’t quite hide his smirk. 

Arya pointedly inspects her nails. “Ah, yes, how could I forget?” she purrs, then squeaks with amusement when he playfully pinches her bum. She shuffles backward on his lap to run her palm over a long and shallow scar that spans his abdomen. “This is a wicked one. What about this?” 

“Dodged some sorry mercenary’s axe. Just barely,” he says gruffly. 

Her eyes widen as she traces her finger along the length of the scar. “Damn,” she murmurs. “I’m glad you did.” She exhales and points to a second somewhat smaller scar below his right ribs. “And this? From the same fight?” 

He peers down at his own naked chest for a moment. “I can’t recall,” he finally says. “Maybe.” 

Her eyes widen. “You can’t recall?” she demands. “This is a big one!” 

“Arya, I’m covered in scars,” he reasons. “I’ve seen many battles. I can’t always remember which scars are from when. Do you remember what all your scars are from?” 

“Yes!” she replies. She slides off of his lap to sit cross-legged beside him on the bed, then points to a faint pink burn mark on the inside of her right wrist. “This one is from a cooking pot.” She indicates a row of very fine faint lines on the back of her hand. “This was a fennec scratch - one of the other kids had some cubs when I was young. And this…” She pushes up her sleeve and points to a white streak of puckered skin on her upper left arm - “...was an arrow wound from a stupid clanmate. Some of the other archers in my clan were not as good as me.” She inspects her right forearm and finds no scars, then lifts the hem of her shirt.

Blackwall watches fondly as she inspects her abdomen. He rolls onto his side to face her and smoothes a hand over her belly. His thumb lingers on a large and jagged scar to the left of her navel, near her hip. “This is from that tumble you took when Haven fell,” he says. His stomach lurches at the mere mention of it, but Arya simply nods. 

“That’s right. A rock or wooden slat or something got me,” she says vaguely, and he swallows another pulse of dismay at the thought. 

He leans in and kisses the scar, then smoothes his hand along the side of her bare left thigh. There’s a crisscross of fine scratches there, still red and healing in places, and he frowns. “What happened here?” 

“Dragon nettle. In the garden.” She snickers. “I don’t have a green thumb.” 

“Did you fall into the nettle patch?” he asks, only half-joking. “That’s not a brown thumb, Arya. That’s two left feet.” 

She scoffs and pinches his arm in rebuke, and he chuckles. He lifts himself to his knees, then gently tugs her ankle to unfold her legs. He settles himself between her knees and leans over to kiss the healing scratches on her thigh. 

She strokes his hair affectionately, and he shoots her a quick smile as he runs his palms along her shins. There are myriad bruises there, and a dark round scar graces each of her knees. He brushes the scars with his thumbs. “These happened when you skidded on the ice to shoot that pride demon just outside of Sahrnia.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Yes, you’re right.” A slow smile lights her face. “Keeping track of my injuries, are you?” 

He is, in fact. It’s not logical, but part of his mind considers Arya’s every wound to be his own personal failure. Blackwall is her shield and her shelter, and if she’s injured, it’s because he failed to guard her.

“You are precious, Your Worship. You’ve got too many scars already.” He leaves a protective kiss on each marked knee. He slides his hands back up along her legs, then kisses the inside of her thigh. 

She inhales deeply at the touch of his lips. Her fingers slide gently through his hair again. “Come here and kiss me,” she says. 

Her voice is low, lightly brushed with a lilt of lust, and Blackwall smiles. “In a moment, my lady,” he says. He drops another kiss on her tender inner thigh, savouring the velvety skin that edges her undergarments. 

Her knees drift apart, and he takes advantage of her widespread legs to trace his tongue along the hem of her smallclothes. 

She lifts her hips toward his face, and his keen ear catches the sweetness of her sharp inhale. “Blackwall, come up here,” she whimpers. 

“Just a moment,” he repeats distractedly; her feminine scent is calling him, and he can’t resist slipping one finger into the edge of her smalls, curious if she’s as ready as her perfume would imply. 

His hopes are confirmed as her precious moisture coats his fingertip. She’s slick and wet already, and he swallows his eagerness as he lightly strokes the slippery heat of her cleft.

A moan trembles from her lips as she arches toward his touch. “Mmmm _yes_ ,” she mewls, and Blackwall happily accepts her assent. 

Instants later, her smalls are forgotten on the floor, and Arya’s fingers clench convulsively in the sheets as he laves the length of her sex with his tongue. He traces the path of her folds up to the pearl of her clit, then strokes the swollen little nub with his lower lip. 

“Blackwall,” she whimpers. His name is like a song in the cadence of her voice, and the desire and desperation in her tone make his cock pulse between his legs. He presses his pelvis against the bed to calm himself, but a contrary surge of pleasure renders him lightheaded.

His hand drifts between his legs while he tastes her scented heat. He carefully squeezes his shaft, and another eager rush subsumes him. 

A blissful groan escapes his throat. It bleeds across his lips to vibrate against the apex of her thighs, and Arya gasps anew as the depth of his groan joins the press of his lips and the lapping of his tongue, painting her pussy with myriad shades of pleasure. 

“Oh gods, Blackwall, come here _now,_ ” she whines, and finally he obeys, lifting his face from her delectable folds to look at her. She eagerly pulls his hair until he shuffles closer and straddles her knees, his thumbs sliding from the crests of her hipbones and up along her waist. 

He slides her shirt higher, revealing the tempting little globes of her breasts, and she eagerly lifts her shoulders from the bed so he can pull the garment off. It joins her smallclothes on the floor, and Arya grabs the back of his neck as he nuzzles her breast, then suckles the pointed peak of her nipple. 

Her knee drifts along the inside of his thigh to press against his balls, and he releases her nipple with a gasp of longing. Suddenly her hand is on his belly, burrowing into his trousers, and he gasps again as she runs her fingers along his steely length. 

Her thumb strokes the head of his cock, and he moans helplessly against her breast. “Arya,” he pleads. 

She presses his balls with her knee, sending a white-hot rush of pleasure through his abdomen. “Lie on your back,” she orders. 

He obeys without a qualm, and Arya is straddling his face within seconds, her knees bracketing his head and her hands shoving his trousers down so his manhood can spring free. He barely has time to admire the shining slickness of her flesh before her mouth takes him in a hot wet stroke.

He chokes out a groan of pleasure, then grabs her thighs and pulls her flush to his face. He can feel her hand caressing his balls as she suckles his cock, like little bolts of bliss that accompany the pressure of her mouth. He moans unabashedly into her pussy, his pleasure melding with her own as her juices paint his lips. 

Arya presses down against his face, and he slides his tongue against her with firm devotion. Her wetness holds all the appeal of water from the clearest mountain spring, and he happily devours every drop. He thoroughly kisses her sex, his lips firm and his tongue swirling as he teases her swollen clit, and soon she’s undulating against him, her pelvis rolling smooth and slow across his eager tongue. 

Her fingers start to tighten against the bare skin of his thighs. Her mouth goes still on his cock and the flexing of her hips grows jerky. Her focus is sharpening, and Blackwall knows she’s close. He wraps his arms around her waist and redoubles his efforts, the flat of his tongue caressing her cleft and clit in a smooth and steady swirl. 

Her nails bite into his thighs as she hits her peak, and she briefly releases his cock with a high-pitched moan of bliss. Then suddenly she takes him deep again, and it’s like his Dalish lover has gone wild: her hands grab his thighs as she zealously rides his face, and his own lust trebles as she fucks him hard and fast with the lush heat of her mouth. 

When the shuddering of her thighs has stilled, she tries to rise away from him with her mouth still on his cock, but Blackwall tightens his arms around her waist. “Stay here,” he gasps. He’s drunk on her, intoxicated by her musky scent and the slick feel of her arousal on his tongue and the carmine flush of her pussy, and having her straddling his face is fuel to his ardent fire.

Her thighs relax at his words, and she continues to work his cock with her tight and slippery throat. His hips rise helplessly to give her his full length, and he groans as she squeezes his cock with a swallow. 

He holds her tight and thrusts his tongue inside of her, and she releases him with a gasp. “Fuck,” she whines, then takes him deep again, her moans of pleasure vibrating into his abdomen in a sweet staccato as the head of his cock slides deep and cuts off her air. 

His tongue delves inside of her as he buries himself in her mouth, and when the surging roar of his pleasure finally crests, he groans his approval into the wetness of her groin. Arya’s lips slide along his shaft as she swallows his release, her tongue tenderly tracing his length until his limbs go limp with completion. 

Finally she lifts her face and sighs happily. “Gods, that’s good,” she breathes, then slides off the bed to her feet. She walks shakily over to the desk and reaches for the jug of water. “Would you like some?” she calls over her shoulder. 

“Yes please,” he says. His gaze travels across her naked back as she pours two cups. Another scar from the fall of Haven taunts him from her left shoulder blade, and a yellowing bruise on the back of her calf is a reminder of a Red Templar attack on the Storm Coast. 

She brings the water back to the bed, then cozies up to him with cup in hand. “How are you?” she purrs. It’s an idle post-coital question, laced with a mischievous drawl in her cheeky voice, and his heart squeezes with affection. 

“Wonderful, my lady,” he replies, and she grins before kissing him. He gently traces the angle of her jaw as he returns her kiss. Arya’s scars and bruises might mark his mistakes, but Blackwall will gladly count them every night if it leads to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/), if you feel like stopping by! xo


	8. Good Morning Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DA Drunk Writing Circle prompt fill for @apostatetabris!
> 
> The prompt: good morning kiss. I doubled up and also filled a Fictober 2018 prompt: "I know you do."

Heat. Pressure. Darkness. _Too comfortable, can’t move…_

The warm hand travels up Blackwall’s back, sliding over his bare shoulder blade. A shifting of the mattress as another body climbs onto the bed. 

He smiles sleepily into his pillow as Arya climbs on top of him. She straddles his hips, settling herself comfortably on his bum, and he feels her shifting weight as she leans forward to kiss the spot between his shoulders. 

“Good morning,” she says.

Her voice is pert and bright - far too bright for how dark it is. “What time is it?” he mumbles, his mouth thick with sleep. 

“No idea,” she chirps. “But it is morning. Technically.” She kisses his ear, his hair, his shoulders, sliding her palms across the muscles of his back. 

He sighs contentedly and nestles his face into the pillow. He wants to ask what kept her out so late; when he’d left her in the Great Hall, she was deep in cahoots with Varric about a ‘special commission’ he was writing for one of their companions, and he can’t imagine that that would have occupied her for hours. 

The question forms on his tongue, but then her hands start to knead his back. Her warm weight is just so nice, and he’s too bloody cozy… 

The vague query fades to the back of his mind as the lull of sleep returns to the fore. Arya massages his shoulders, the heels of her hands pressing into knots he didn’t realize were there. Blackwall’s body is here in bed, anchored by her solid heat on his back, but his mind is floating and free, loose and wandering in the darkness of very early morn. 

Arya smoothes her hands up along his spine, across his shoulders, soothing him with heat and pressure until he’s more asleep than awake. She leans forward, pressing her chest against his back, and with the last kernel of wakefulness in his mind, he realizes that she’s topless. 

She rolls her hips slightly, pressing her pelvis more firmly into his bottom, and a slow stir of interest uncoils in his groin. Her hands move up along his arms, sliding under the pillow until she finds his wrists, and when she wraps her little elven fingers around them, the stirring between his legs pulses more strongly. 

She rolls her hips against his bum, and her breath ghosts against his ear, and _now_ he’s conflicted: he’s still cozy, still comfortable, but Arya’s eager body is calling him, cajoling his cock into alertness. If only he could find the energy to reciprocate… 

She leans low, brushing her breasts against his back, and he shifts restlessly to let his cock straighten against his thigh. “Mmm,” he grumbles. 

She chuckles softly, then lifts her chest and slides off of his back. “Come on. Roll over,” she whispers. 

He presses his face into the pillow for a moment more - _crystal grace and apples, it smells like her_ \- then, without opening his eyes, he slowly rolls onto his back.

The mattress shifts again, then Arya is straddling him once more. She pushes the blankets away from his waist, and when she lowers her weight onto his hips, he realizes with a jolt of happy surprise that it’s not just her upper half that’s nude.

She’s fully naked and she’s _wet_ , and Blackwall groans with sleepy appreciation as his shaft comes to rest in the snug embrace of her slick cleft. She slides her hands over his biceps and along his forearms to capture his wrists again, and as she leans her weight into his wrists, pinning him to the mattress, his languid lust intensifies from a simmer into a boil. 

He lifts his hips, pressing his cock more firmly into her heat. “I like this,” he mumbles, then immediately regrets it. It’s vague and insufficient praise for how she makes him feel. Blackwall _loves_ this. He loves the solid reassurance of her small and slender body splayed across his own. He loves the dominant grip that she uses to hold him down, even though he could flip her over in a heartbeat. 

She chuckles, a bright and vibrant sound that rings like bells in the dark. “I know you do,” she purrs, then undulates her hips, sliding herself along his length, spreading her slippery arousal over them both. 

Then suddenly he’s inside of her, sheathed in the heavenly tightness of her, heat and pressure and pleasure of a different kind than her hands across his back. She rocks against him slowly, a rhythmic in-and-out like the breath that fills his lungs, and Blackwall simply breathes in this bliss. He’s blind in the darkness of the bedroom, but he doesn’t need his vision anyway; every scrap of his mind is focused on the _feel_ of her, her heat around his cock and her weight on his hips and her fingers biting into his wrists as she takes him deep and slow. 

Her right hand leaves his wrist and she slows down even more, and without even looking, Blackwall knows exactly where her hand has gone: it’s between her legs, her fingers pressing against her swollen bud. He listens with drowsy satisfaction as her breathing grows jagged and sharp, and when she gasps, he gasps as well, his pleasure rising sharply as she contracts around him. 

Her hand pins his wrist again. Her lips crash against his own in a ferocious kiss, and Blackwall moans into her tongue as she rolls against him, fucking him hard and fast as she rides out her rapture.

A few long, delicious moments later, she slows and pulls away from his lips with a gasp. “Don’t mind me if I help myself to your cock,” she quips, then laughs breathlessly against his cheek. 

“Not at all, my lady,” he breathes. He’s more than happy to be her thrall, the object of her passion and the recipient of her torrid touch. Her pleasure feeds his own, bleeding into him through her skin and her slickness and her sweat.

She presses his wrists into the mattress. She rides him slow and careful, then fast and hard when he thrusts toward her. When he gasps out a groan of ecstasy, she catches his pleasure on her tongue, kissing him deeply as he shudders helplessly beneath her. 

Finally Arya releases his wrists and flops onto the bed beside him, and Blackwall doesn’t hesitate: he rolls toward her, slinging his arm around her waist and gathering her into his body. 

He tucks her head under his chin, and she laughs and pushes gently at his chest. “Wait, wait,” she urges. “I want to clean up first!” 

He wraps his arm tightly around her. “Stay,” he mumbles. He’s dozing off already, both sated and sedated by their sex, and the comfort of her body is all he wants before falling back asleep. 

She ceases in her wriggling, and he feels her happy sigh against his chest. “All right, you big brute,” she whispers. “I’ll stay.” 

He can hear the smile in her voice, and it makes him smile in return. He nestles into the pillow, enjoying the scent of her hair and the heat of her body tucked into his own. “Good night, Arya,” he mumbles.

He hears the brightness of her chuckle. “Good morning, you mean,” she retorts. 

A half-smile is all he can manage before sleep snatches him away. Morning, night, or afternoon: it truly doesn’t matter.

With Arya in his arms, everything is _good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come scream at me on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) about the Big Bearded One. ;) xoxo


	9. "Her Perfumed Sanctuary"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Self-prompt based on [this amazing codex entry titled "Her Perfumed Sanctuary".](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Her_Perfumed_Sanctuary) Fanfic writers existed in the Dragon Age as well!! XD 
> 
> I also incorporated a Fictober 2018 dialogue prompt: "I know how you love to play games."

A bright bark of laughter floats out of the bookshop.

Blackwall almost smiles - an instinctive response to the sound of his Dalish lover’s mirth - but he forces his face to stay stern as he surveys the courtyard. Even here in Val Royeaux, he’s Arya’s shield and her shelter, and he needs to ward any potential enemies away. These rich Orlesians may wear a veneer of civility, but Blackwall knows all too well that they’re just as vicious as any common criminal. 

A moment later, Arya saunters out of the shop, a jaunty sway in her step and a scroll in her hand. “Look what I found,” she crows. 

He takes the scroll from her outstretched hand, and his eyebrows leap high on his forehead at the title alone: _Her Perfumed Sanctuary_. “What is this?” he asks incredulously.

“It’s hilarious, that’s what it is,” Arya says gleefully. “Go on, read it!”

Blackwall obeys, and amusement wars with embarrassment as he reaches the end of the scroll. He raises his eyes to Arya’s face, and he can’t help but smile at her glowing grin. “You paid good coin for this?” he asks.

“Of course I did! Something like this is priceless!” she exclaims. She takes the scroll back from him and tucks it into her belt. “You Andrastians are so _strange_ ,” she says. “What kind of odd person describes a woman’s nether regions as a ‘perfumed sanctuary’?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Blackwall hedges. The language might be overly fancy, but if he’s perfectly honest, he finds the description rather apt. 

Unfortunately, his equivocal response only serves to snatch his impish lover’s attention. “Oh my. Oh, Blackwall,” she croons. “You like this description, don’t you?”

He flushes. “No,” he says gruffly. “I don’t _like_ it. I just - it’s not completely - I can see where the writer... I mean…” 

He trails off, flustered by the widening of her shit-eating grin. She sways toward him until she’s leaning into his chest. “Come on,” she teases. “You don’t think it’s even a little bit of an exaggeration? I mean, please. _Perfumed_? That’s simply overkill, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” he mumbles, annoyed that the growing heat in his cheeks is giving him away. “It’s… All right, the phrase is silly. I’ll give you that. But… there’s something nice about the, er, smell. That’s all I mean to say.” To his shame, the more he thinks about that particular feminine scent, the more he agrees with this mysterious raunchy writer: if a perfume is meant to entice the object of one’s desire, to reel a person in and seduce them, then that’s exactly what Arya’s private scent is to him. 

At the mere thought of his Dalish lover’s scent, an image sparks in his mind: her legs spread wide, her slick and shining folds crowned by the swollen little bud of her clit, looking for all the world like the perfect petals a dew-kissed rose. 

A flush of heat rolls from his cheeks down through his chest to settle low in his belly, and he swallows hard to quell it. Then he realizes that Arya hasn’t replied. 

He finally lifts his eyes to her face, and another jolt of embarrassment and heat pulses in his abdomen. Her amethyst eyes are scorching with intent, and her lips are curled in a provocative little smirk. She shifts slightly against his chest, and he clenches his jaw as her pelvis brushes lightly against the front of his trousers and his obnoxiously hardened cock. 

After a few long and loaded seconds, Arya finally speaks, and Blackwall almost wishes she hadn’t. “Something nice, you say?” she purrs in a sultry voice. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” 

Blackwall knows her game. He knows exactly what she’s after. And he really shouldn’t indulge her, not here in Val Royeaux where anyone could be watching. 

But the thought of Arya’s ‘perfumed sanctuary’ won’t get out of his mind. He imagines his hand dipping down to those plump and rosy petals, savouring her slippery heat on his fingers before leaning close and breathing in the hot and visceral musk of her. Then, when he drops his lips right between her legs, the sweet and salty taste… 

He inhales slowly and takes a step back. He gently takes the Inquisitor’s elbow and leads her away from the bookshop. 

They walk in silence for some time: up a few flights of stairs, along a bright and airy street, around a corner and then another, down a neat but narrow alley that’s overshadowed by two large and opulent buildings on either side - 

Suddenly he spins on her, pinning her against the wall with his hands on either side of her head. “You want to know what I mean?” he growls.

Her excited little gasp is all the encouragement he needs. He crowds her body firmly against the wall and presses his lips to her cheekbone. “I like your _perfume_ ,” he tells her. “I like to get my nose right in it before I taste you with my tongue.” 

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” she gasps. Her chest rises against his own with her desperate intake of breath. “So… so it’s not an exaggeration then.”

She’s trying for jocular, but she’s failing spectacularly; her voice is wavering, pitched high and pleading, and the tense arch of her spine brings him an odd sense of satisfaction. 

Roughly he pulls off his gloves and drops them on the ground, then pushes open her coat and tugs at her belt. “Not an exaggeration, my lady,” he confirms. “You know what else I like? Carrying your _perfume_ in my beard after we’ve done the deed. Especially at night. I like waking up in the morning and having that sweet smell to remind me that you were screaming my name the night before.”

“Falon’Din’s fucking balls, Blackwall,” she whines. 

He drops to his knees and drags her trousers down. Before she can say another word, he shoves her thighs apart and buries his face between her legs. 

Her cry of delight is muffled by her fist, but Blackwall doesn’t mind; his attention is solely focused on his Dalish lover’s scent. It’s warm and animalistic and raw, and he breathes her in with gusto while delving his tongue into her delicate flesh. 

He laves her swollen clit with long and hungry licks, lapping and languishing in her fragrant flavour, taking every last drop of her to coat his lips and tongue and chin. When her thighs go tense beneath his hands, he devours her more hungrily still. He swirls his tongue over the bead between her legs until she jerks against his face.

Her body shudders as her climax courses through her, and her cries of rapture are stifled by her own hand. As her trembling grows still, Blackwall wipes his face on her bare thighs to remove her excess juices from his beard. 

She laughs tiredly and leans her full weight against the wall, her chest heaving with the strength of her orgasm, and Blackwall carefully rolls her trousers back up before replacing his gloves and rising to his feet. 

She grins at him as she buckles her belt. Her desperate submissiveness is long gone, replaced by her usual roguish attitude. “I’m surprised at you, Ser Blackwall,” she whispers. “Such behaviour in a public place!”

Her tone is rounded with mirth, and he shakes his head at how utterly irrepressible she is. “I know how you love to play games, my lady,” he drawls, then gently takes her hand. “Come, we should find Solas and Cole. They’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.”

She cackles as they jog through the alley back into the brightly lit streets of Val Royeaux. “Oh, they won’t need to wonder,” she says. “Cole will know exactly what we’ve been up to. You have a very hard time hiding your thoughts from him, I’ve noticed.” 

Blackwall grunts, but Arya’s tinkling laugh wipes away some of his dismay. As they reach the lower market, she smiles up at him and squeezes his hand.

Her expression is sweet and fond, and he smiles back before leaning down to give her a chaste little kiss. But before he can pull away, she twines her fingers around the back of his neck. 

“I can smell my _perfume_ on your face,” she whispers.

She’s a cheeky little minx, but Blackwall isn’t embarrassed anymore. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Worship,” he says softly. “I’ll wear it as a badge of honour.” 

Her laughter is low and knowing, and Blackwall grins before kissing her again. Arya honours him every time she gives him her body. If anyone notices the evidence of her esteem in his beard, he’ll take their disapproval in stride. 

Arya Lavellan’s approval is all he really needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr.](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) Join me if you like! xo


	10. Flower Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alert: this chapter is NOT smutty!! I had posted it on Tumblr only, but I am reposting here specifically so the accompanying art can have a new place to live in case Tumblr tears it down. Although who knows if maybe this link will no longer work after the purge...  
> (-__-;;)
> 
> Apologies in advance - the photo is a very large size. I dunno how to resize it.

Blackwall sighs quietly, but sits obediently still as Arya threads a flower into his beard.

She bites her lower lip as she trims the stem of another blossom, and Blackwall eyes her poorly concealed amusement with a weary sort of patience. “My lady, is this really necessary?” he pleads.

She lifts one brow at him. “Of course it’s not,” she said. She crosses her legs comfortably on the bed and tucks the flower into his beard.

He raises his eyebrows. “Arya,” he says warningly.

She widens her eyes at him. “Blackwall,” she replies, in a deep and mocking voice.

He shoots her a chiding look, and she releases a tinkling laugh as she sticks another bloom into his facial hair. “Come on, Ser Blackwall, don’t be so grumpy. I need your beard to match your hair.”

He sighs again, then continues to sit passively until she’s decorated his face with flowers. Then she rises on her knees and solicitously adjusts the magic-infused flower crown she found in an abandoned chest in Emprise du Lion.

“There,” she says softly, then sits back on her heels. Her glittering gaze slides over him, and his faint exasperation melts at the obvious affection in her eyes.

She lifts her eyes back to his face, and suddenly her cheeky grin is back. “You are the cutest man I have ever seen,” she announces.

He snorts indelicately; no one has ever called Thom Rainier cute. But he can feel his cheeks turning pink with pleasure all the same.

She shuffles close and straddles his lap, then her smiling lips capture his own with a kiss. He happily wraps his arms around her, his hands sliding under the loose fabric of his own cotton shirt that she’s commandeered for herself, his palms smoothing over her skin to stroke the line of her spine.

She melts into his embrace, and he drinks her in for a long, luxurious moment before she pulls away. She carefully adjusts one of the flowers in his beard.

Then the mischievous dimple of her smile is back. “You know who would love to see you looking so adorable? Dorian. And also Bull. And also Solas! I’ll go grab them.” Suddenly she’s off his lap and halfway toward the stairs.

“Wha- Arya!” he blurts. He leaps off the bed. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Of course I would- _hey!_ ” She shrieks with laughter as he snatches her around the waist and lifts her off her feet.

She kicks her little elven feet and struggles in his arms like a demon, but Blackwall doesn’t release her until he’s back at the bed. He tosses her onto her back and pins her down palm-to-palm. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growls.

But his forbidding tone is ruined by the infernal flower crown slipping down over his eye.

Arya bursts into laughter and batters his flanks playfully with her knees. “You can’t tell the Inquisitor what to do! Sheer insubordination!”

Her mirth is infectious, seeping into him more thoroughly than the brilliant warmth of a winter fire, and his attempt at sternness abruptly melts without a trace. He beams at his joyful Dalish lover, then cradles her precious face in his hands and kisses her hard.

She wraps herself around him in a tangle of lithe and loving limbs, and Blackwall breathes in the bliss of her embrace. She might have stripped his gruff persona as surely as she stripped him of his shirt, but he doesn’t really mind.

If Arya thinks him _cute_ , then a flowery beard he’ll keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to send me smutty prompts for Blackwall, feel free - my prompt list is [here,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/dwcprompts) and I'm on Tumblr [here.](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) Send the prompt as an ask, and I'll answer in time! xoxo


	11. "Do That Again"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for @ediejay on Tumblr! The prompt: "Do that again." 
> 
> This takes place in the Emerald Graves, long before Trespasser.

“Solas needs help,” Arya snaps. She pulls another arrow from the quiver at her waist. “Draw them away from him. I’m fine here.” 

Blackwall nods curtly and follows her command. Solas is facing a pack of red lyrium horrors, and the corrupted creatures spin toward Blackwall when he charges them with an aggressive roar. Before they can do more than screech in defiance, he’s plowed the lot of them off their twisted feet. 

He spins and readies himself for the next attack. Fire and bits of Fade rain down on the jumble of enemies as Blackwall lifts his shield. He exchanges a quick glance with Solas, and together they assault the group of horrors until they’re nothing more than a pulpy pile of flesh and scarlet crystal lumps.

Blackwall looks around, his shoulders growing tense as he tries to find Arya in the fray. Suddenly he spots her: she’s thirty paces away, and there’s an enormous lyrium-laced monster that’s racing toward her… 

“The Inquisitor-” Solas says, but Blackwall doesn’t wait to listen. He bolts toward her as fast as his armoured feet can carry him, his pulse pounding in his ears as he watches the monster reach for her arm -

Arya dodges away from the beast with a swift roll, and Blackwall slams into it with a bellow of rage. 

He hits the ground with the red lyrium monster beneath him. He raises his sword in both hands and slams it into the creature’s chest with every ounce of force in his body.

The beast’s limbs twitch and writhe for a moment, and then it falls still. Blackwall tosses his head impatiently, then runs his gloved and bloodied fingers through his hair to smooth it back.

He lifts his face, and relief squeezes his chest as he meets Arya’s amethyst eyes. To his surprise, a heated little smirk is curling the corner of her lips, and he gives her a quizzical look; in the face of this ambush, what could she possibly be smirking about? 

“Do that again,” she says.

He stares at her with growing confusion. “What, kill another of these monsters?” he asks. He rises to his feet and wipes his sword clean on the red templar’s ragged tunic before sheathing it. 

“No,” she says. “That head-tossing thing. You’ve certainly got my attention.” She raises one eyebrow suggestively. 

Blackwall frowns. He’s utterly bewildered. “Head-tossing…?”

“You know,” she drawls. Then she tosses her head and runs her fingers through her short auburn hair. 

Instantly he understands, and his face goes hot as Arya grins at him. “That - that wasn’t - I need a haircut, my lady, that’s all that was,” he sputters.

She throws her head back with a hearty laugh and traipses over to his side. “I’m sure it was,” she purrs, then runs one finger along his jawline. 

He ducks his head sheepishly as Solas and the Iron Bull approach. “Arya, please. Not now,” he begs. 

She bites her lower lip provocatively, and a shameful rush of heat pools in Blackwall’s belly as their companions draw close. 

Bull claps her affably on the shoulder. “That was a close one, Boss. I don’t blame you for wanting to take your noble stallion here for a good ride.” He jerks his head in Blackwall’s direction.

Arya grins up at the qunari captain, and Blackwall rubs his face in embarrassment. He’s violently thankful when Solas delicately clears his throat and changes the subject. “I might suggest taking our rest for the night, Inquisitor,” he says. 

Bull scratches his neck idly. “We’re kinda far from camp, Solas.”

The mage folds his hands behind his back and politely bows his head. “That is so. But Arya mentioned wanting to investigate Din’an Hanin tomorrow. It would be more efficient to remain nearby, rather than travelling back and forth.” He shifts his gaze to the Inquisitor. “I would be happy to set protective wards if you wish to make camp closeby.”

Arya nods in a businesslike manner. “Yes. We’ll camp by the river tonight,” she says. She points toward the south. “There was a good spot about two hundred paces that way - protected on one side by the cliffside, easy to keep watch. Thoughts?”

“I remember the spot,” Blackwall says. “It’s defensible. A good choice.” 

Solas and the Iron Bull nod their agreement, and they set off toward the specified campsite.

Solas and Bull segue into a quiet conversation, and Blackwall falls back a step to guard the rear. A moment later, Arya is sauntering along beside him.

He pretends to ignore her, but it’s proving quite impossible; his elven lover draws his attention whether she means to or not, and she certainly means to do so now. Her slender hips are swaying, and her dimple is revealed by her sassy smile, and when Blackwall finally meets her eye, she tosses him a coquettish little glance.

He tilts his head with fond exasperation. “Arya…”

She shrugs innocently. “I just think you need to be careful when you do things like that. Tossing your head like some kind of dark and handsome lion.” She runs a heated glance along the length of his body. 

A wave of warmth laps at his belly in response to her sultry stare, and Blackwall swallows hard. “Maybe you can cut this hair for me when we get back to Skyhold,” he suggests weakly.

“After that little show? Not a chance,” she scoffs. She playfully pinches his ass, then jogs past Solas and Bull to scout the area ahead. 

“It wasn’t a show,” Blackwall protests, but she ignores him as she creeps close to their prospective campsite. Her keen violet eyes seem to find no threat, for she plants her fists on her hips and nods in satisfaction as Blackwall and the others reach her side.

She lifts her gaze to Solas. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Certainly,” Solas says. Shimmering green patches of light appear on the ground around the site before melting away, and Arya nods her thanks before shifting into the business of setting up camp. 

They pitch three tents and settle around a small fire, and Bull begins to sharpen his weapons. Arya settles on a log beside Solas, and Blackwall crouches at her side. 

“I’m going to go clean up, if I can have your leave,” he says.

“Of course,” she says briskly. “Be careful.”

He bows his head in agreement, and she smiles before turning to the elven mage. “Solas, I’ve got a question. They say there’s a fallen elven warrior for every tree in the Emerald Graves. Would all that death mean the Veil is thinner here? Does that affect your spellcasting?”

Solas smiles and launches into an enthusiastic explanation of souls and spirits and the Fade. Assured by Arya’s safety at the hands of the mild-mannered mage and the towering qunari warrior, Blackwall rises to his feet and makes his way north in the direction of the waterfall that spawned the rippling ribbon of the river.

Crickets and strange birds, the burbling flow of water and the whispers of shifting grass: the peaceful sounds of these verdant lands fill his ears as he walks along the river. Maybe it is the bodies of fallen elves that feed these lands, or maybe he’s imagining it entirely, but there does seem to be something odd to this place. It’s a sense of something _more_ in the air, a weight that even his mundane senses can detect, and he wonders if perhaps he should have remained to listen to Solas’s talk.

The rushing flow of the waterfall soon takes over the softer sounds of grass and birds, and Blackwall discards his idle musings as he nears the waterfall’s mouth. He eyes the crystalline curtain of water with great appreciation. He’s liberally covered in blood and sweat and dirt, and the waterfall looks especially welcoming in the half-light of gloaming. 

He inspects his surroundings carefully for threats. Assured of his own aloneness, he sheds his sword and shield, then doffs his gloves and boots and breastplate. Greaves and cuirasses and his thick padded coat are the next to come off, and when all of his gear is carefully piled at the river’s edge, he rolls the legs of his thick woollen trousers up to his knees and wades into the water. 

The coolness of the river seeps between his toes and laps at his calves, and Blackwall sighs with relief. He crouches and briskly washes his hands, then eagerly drinks a few mouthfuls of water before rinsing his face. 

Each handful of water is more rejuvenating than the last. He splashes the water over his bare arms and shoulders, enjoying the tickling trickle as it runs down his back. He tries to run his fingers through his hair, but his fingers catch in the stiff strands, matted as they are with sweat and blood. 

He shakes his head ruefully. How Arya could find this ragged mess attractive is beyond him. He wades over to the waterfall and bends forward, allowing the rush of water to inundate his head. He rubs his fingers roughly through his hair unless it becomes loose and soft, then backs out of the waterfall and vigorously shakes his head. 

He runs his hands roughly over his hair to squeeze the excess water out. Then he hears a drawling voice. “Come on, you can’t pretend that wasn’t for my benefit.” 

Blackwall huffs in amusement and shakes his head. He should have known she would follow him. “A man can’t have a moment of privacy…” He trails off as he turns around. She’s not on the riverbank, and he frowns as he swiftly scans the surroundings; where is she?

Suddenly he spots a shifting in the branches of a tree to his left. His gaze darts up and finds a pair of glowing orbs in the half-dark.

Her catlike eyes blink twice, then Arya drops from the branches and lands soundlessly in a crouch at the base of the tree. A slow smile curls her lips as she rises to her full height. 

He watches with surprise as she wanders close to the river’s edge. She’s unarmed and her feet are bare, and he can’t help but feel a pinch of concern at her slender vulnerability. 

His eyes dart around behind her, anxiety rising as he tries to find any potential enemies, but Arya only laughs. “It’s all right,” she says. “I was careful on my way here. We’re alone.” 

He relaxes at her words; her elven eyes are sharper than his own, after all. As he returns his attention to his lover, he realizes that it’s not just her eyesight that seems particularly elven tonight: there’s something else about her, something beyond her obviously bare feet that’s reminding him more than ever that Arya is not just an elf, but a Dalish one. 

She tilts her head and studies him, her big amethyst eyes tracing from the crown of his head down to the waistband of his woolen trousers. A flush of heat blooms beneath his skin, following the path of her gaze to the juncture of his thighs, and he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as his manhood begins to stir. 

Without any further preamble, Arya unbuckles her coat and drops it on the ground, then pulls her tunic over her head, leaving her nude except for her leggings. As always, her small breasts are bare beneath her tunic, and Blackwall stares stupidly at the rising of her rosy nipples as they’re kissed by the cool night air. 

She shifts her weight to one hip, then slides her fingers into the edge of her leggings and shimmies them down. Blackwall’s shameless gaze falls between her legs, then follows the shifting flow of fabric as her leggings slide down to her delicate ankles. 

She kicks the garment away and blinks at him. “Do that thing again,” she says.

Her voice is low and smooth, and her eyes are glittering in the dying light of day. There’s mischief in her tone and mystery in her eyes, and he’s entranced by her slow and deliberate approach as she steps into the river to join him. 

His cock is a rock-hard rod in his pants, and it jerks toward her as she comes to a stop. His mouth is suddenly dry, and he swallows hard. “Do I have to?” he asks weakly. 

She lowers her eyes demurely before lifting them to his face again. “For me?” she simpers. “It’s a very sexy move.”

He scratches his ear, torn between arousal and embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be,” he mumbles. “It’s - I really do need a haircut, my lady.” 

Arya reaches up and traces the edge of his beard with one slender finger. “Come now,” she whispers. “Show yourself off for me.”

He exhales in defeat, then gives her a rueful half-smile. He’s never been able to resist her carnal commands. “If you insist,” he says. He takes another handful of water and splashes it over his face and head, then tosses his head and runs his fingers through his hair. 

“There,” he says. “Are you-”

She kisses him, stifling his words with the softness of her lips. Her palms are splayed on his abdomen, then her fingers are curling into the waistband of his trousers as her tongue slips between his lips.

She presses her naked groin against his considerably more clothed one, and Blackwall groans into her mouth. Water might be dripping down his forehead and his back, but fire is sizzling in his veins, a flaming roar of lust for the wanton woman pressed against him.

He nips her lower lip, then eagerly slides his callused palms down the smoothness of her back to cup her ripe and golden curves. He curls his hand around the base of her buttock, and his index finger slips along the edge of her folds.

Arya breaks from their kiss to mewl her need against his bearded cheek, and Blackwall grumbles with satisfaction. She’s wet already, slick moisture coating the tip of his wandering finger, and he reaches a little deeper, trying to stroke more of her slick heat.

Arya breathes hard against his cheek, her fists clenching in the edge of his breeches as she arches her back and spreads her legs, trying to give better access to his hand. Then suddenly she’s in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist and her fingers twisting in his too-long hair. 

“Fuck me,” she demands. 

“Yes, my lady,” he instantly replies, and she kisses him hard. 

He kisses her back in kind, his tongue thrusting into her mouth only to be parried by the sleek heat of her own tongue, and then he breaks the kiss and strides toward the shore with his elven lover in his arms. 

He sets her on her feet at the river’s edge. “Where-?”

She strides over to the tree in which she’d been hidden earlier that evening. “Here,” she announces. She places her palms on its gnarled trunk, then bends forward and arches her spine. 

Blackwall gapes at her, enthralled by the sight of her welcoming body. She glances at him over her shoulder and bites her lower lip, and before his mind can process anything but how damned exquisite she is, he’s on his knees behind her and his hands are prying her legs farther apart.

He tastes her, and Maker’s bloody breath, she’s bliss. His tongue slips along her slick-soaked folds to curl around her clit, and Arya jerks back against his mouth.

Her pleasure cries are clear even when muffled against her wrist. Blackwall angles his head to better taste her, his thumbs tracing the velvety inside of her thighs as he laps her plump and heated flesh. Arya’s stifled whimpers grow increasingly desperate, and as she grinds herself back against his face, Blackwall’s own desperation continues to surge, pounding through his chest and his cock until he can barely stand the tension of his own straining lust. 

He frees his cock from his breeches. He takes himself in hand and tugs, and a groan of longing bursts from his throat and pours across his lover’s perfectly presented pussy.

Arya’s muffled cry is sharper than before as she bucks her hips back toward his mouth. Within the space of a few breathless moments, they find a perfect rhythm: he strokes himself with his hand as she arches her spine to slide her clit against his tongue, and it’s not long before she throws her head back in rapture.

She shudders and keens with climax, then lifts her mouth from her wrist. “Blackwall, please, fuck me now!” she sobs.

He leans away from her delectable heat. “Yes,” he breathes, and he shakily rises to his feet. His hands slide across the graceful curves of her hips, then he grasps his cock in one hand and smoothes it along the length of her cleft.

She bends her back like a bow. “Now!” she demands.

He doesn’t waste his breath replying, and all at once he’s inside of her. 

Their pleasured gasps meld together in the fragrant evening air, and Blackwall splays his palm on the curve of her back as he fucks her fast and hard. Their frenzied need is beautifully equal and glaringly obvious, her bucking hips meeting his pumping ones in perfect harmony, and Blackwall can barely breathe, too focused on the feel of her, the look of her, the muffled and melodic sounds of her - 

And then she moves, deepening the bend of her waist and bringing her legs together. A desperate groan escapes his lips as the press of her thighs enfolds his cock more tightly within her heated depths. “Arya,” he pleads.

“More,” she commands. Her voice is rough with pleasure, and Blackwall cedes happily to the authority of her command, thrusting into her with increasing urgency.

The tightness, the heat, the look of her bent against this tree: it’s all too much, it’s all too perfect, and Blackwall suddenly bursts. He’s coming apart, shattering into pieces, pleasure ripping through his calves and fingers and throat until he can only shudder and gasp for breath against his lover’s silken back.

She’s breathing hard as well, and the rise and fall of her ribs against his cheek is oddly comforting. When his heart rate begins to slow, he carefully withdraws from her body. 

Arya straightens with a happy groan, then leans heavily against the tree. Her eyes are closed, and a peaceful smile lifts the corners of her lips as she rests her cheek and her hip against the gnarled bark.

Blackwall presses his body against her naked back. Her skin is hot and slightly sticky, and he slides his arms loosely around her waist, then presses his lips carefully to her sweat-laced temple.

She hums happily in his embrace, then chuckles as he releases her and sinks to his knees with an exhausted sigh. 

He tilts his head back to look up at her. She smiles down at him, still leaning against the tree as she traces her fingers over the grooves of its bark, and Blackwall simply admires the loose and languid look of her. 

Her amethyst eyes are sparkling in the last fading light of day. Her Dalish tattoos are the same shade of green as the leaves that whispers and sway overhead, and her nakedness seems more natural against this cracked and creviced tree than any clothing would be. Arya is the Inquisitor, the woman who gives commands and makes decisions that have shaken this nation and the next. But here in this place, she is an elf: bare of skin and bare of foot on the ancient grounds of her people, softness and strength and oneness with the history that’s steeped into these lands, and Blackwall loves her so very much.

He reaches out and runs his fingers gently from her knee down to her slender ankle. Her smile widens, bright and brilliant and mischievous, and the adoration pounding through his body both brings his blood to life and steals his breath away. 

The Emerald Graves have proven dangerous thus far, crawling as they are with red Templars and giants and wildlife alike. But here, kneeling at the feet of his sated elven lover, Blackwall feels only peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to swing by! xoxo


	12. Good, Chasing, Prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for DA DWC Friday: "good, chasing, prayer" for @sulevinblade. 
> 
> I realized recently that I have never really written Arya and Blackwall talking - I just go straight to the sex LOL??! So here is them having a lil’ conversation BEFORE the sex. Bahaha.

The hour is late, and Skyhold’s grounds are silent and still. The chapel is deserted at this hour of night, and Blackwall is grateful. 

He gazes at the candles. Their tiny flames flicker and dance, casting shadows across Andraste’s granite robes. It’s silent and peaceful here, and of course that’s the point; the people of the Inquisition come here for peace, for answers, for comfort and for hope. 

Blackwall awkwardly folds his arms. He has not set foot in a chapel or a Chantry for years. When Thom Rainier was a boy, he prayed before bed every day - the kinds of selfish prayers only a small boy could provide: _Please, Maker, make me big and strong. Make me the best swordsman in all the Free Marches._

Then Thom became a man. He became big and strong, and he won the Grand Tourney. And he had no use for prayers anymore. He was a hero, a lauded swordsman across the Free Marches. Prayers were for people who didn’t have the strength to take what they wanted, and Thom Rainier was nothing of the sort.

Then Thom became a murderer. He became a coward, and he abandoned his men, and he hid behind another man’s name instead. And he had no right to pray anymore. Prayers were for those who sought forgiveness, and Thom Rainier deserved nothing of the sort.

Then Thom became Arya Lavellan’s lover, and more importantly, her shield. 

Now, many years after his last foray onto sacred ground, these two crucial roles have compelled him to pray once more.

He heaves a heavy sigh, then lowers himself to one knee and looks up at Andraste’s stone face. _I don’t remember how to do this,_ he thinks. It’s been so long, and the only canticles that stick in his mind are ones of glory and battles victorious. He supposes they might be appropriate; the Inquisition begins the march to the Arbour Wilds in the morning, after all. But glory is the last thing on Blackwall’s mind. 

_Safety and protection._ These are his greatest concerns, the ones that nibble at his mind and make his heart tremble in his chest. These are the wishes he has for Arya, the ones that sit in his clasped hands and the tip of his tongue, and these are the favours he finally asks.

He bows his head. _Please,_ he thinks. _Please, Lady Andraste, if you are there… watch over the Inquisitor tomorrow and keep her safe. Don’t let any harm come to her._

He trails off, feeling awkward and unsure. It almost feels like he’s telling the Maker’s Bride to do his job; _Blackwall_ is Arya’s shield and her shelter, after all. It’s his responsibility to keep her safe.

So he bows his head once more and tries again. _Lady Andraste,_ he prays, _Give me the strength to keep her safe. Let me stand between her and her enemies, and let any injuries fall on me instead._

The chapel is silent, and the candles flicker still, and Blackwall lifts his head to study the statue’s still and stony face. Then he hears the creaking of the door. 

He swiftly rises to his feet and turns. The heavy wooden door inches open, and Arya pokes her head inside. 

Her gamine face creases into a smile, and then her slender elven form is slipping through the door. She’s wearing her favourite red dressing down, and her bare feet are silent on the stones as she makes her approach. 

“Here you are,” she says. “I found your note on the pillow. Then I got too cold to wait. You’re my favourite source of heat, you know.” Her smile grows mischievous as she sidles up to him.

Blackwall bashfully scratches his beard, feeling oddly caught out. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he says. “I was just…” He trails off, feeling more embarrassed by the moment. Arya has always denied being the Herald of Andraste, and she’s not particularly adherent to Dalish beliefs either. What if she thinks him strange for coming here? He thinks _himself_ strange, after all. 

She wanders over to Andraste’s statue and takes a seat on the dais, and her words address his very thoughts. “I haven’t seen you come here before,” she says. “I didn’t think you really believed in the Maker.”

“I… do,” he says hesitantly. “I think. It’s… hard to say.” He rubs the back of his head. Of all the strange and unsettling things they’ve seen and done, nothing has disproven the Maker’s existence. But nothing has proven it, either. And yet, Corypheus had told Arya that the Golden City was empty… 

She tilts her head curiously, and Blackwall sits at his lover’s feet on a lower step of the dais. “I don’t know, Arya. I don’t know what to think half the time. But… it doesn’t really matter, does it? I just…” He shrugs. “I suppose I thought that praying can’t hurt.” He drops his eyes to his hands, feeling more foolish than ever.

She leans toward him, and her slender archer’s fingers slide across his hand. “Blackwall, what’s wrong?” she says softly. “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

 _Yes,_ he thinks, but the words remain locked behind his lips. He doesn’t want to add his worries to the weight on her shoulders; she carries enough burdens already. The dark circles beneath her lovely amethyst eyes are proof of this. 

He places his hand over hers, engulfing her hand in his large and callused palm. “Do you never feel the need to pray?” he asks. 

The concern in her face heats into a cheeky smirk. “To this human goddess, you mean?” She jerks her head at the statue of Andraste. 

“No,” he says. “To your elven gods. You never want… I don’t know… a little help?” 

She leans back on her elbows and shrugs unconcernedly. “No,” she says. “If our gods are around anymore, they’re not doing my people any favours, so I shan’t waste my time.” 

Her words are confident and calm, and Blackwall marvels at her conviction. “What makes you so sure?” he asks. “The tattoos on your face… They’re religious marks, aren’t they?”

“Ah, my vallaslin,” she says. “They’re more a mark of adulthood, but yes. Getting my vallaslin was the last truly Dalish thing I did before I gave up on the religious stuff. My Keeper despaired of me, I can tell you,” she adds. “‘Taking our history lightly’ and all that. She would have disowned me if I hadn’t been the second-best hunter in the clan.” 

She winks at him, then gestures grandly toward her face. “These are the marks of Mythal,” she says in a mockingly dramatic tone. 

“Who is that?” he asks. 

“The mother of the other elven gods. Well, most of them,” Arya says, and she stretches out on Andraste’s steps once more. “The protector and defender of our people. Or so they say. She doesn’t seem to have done much good in protecting us elves from you humans, though.” 

Her smile is teasing, but Blackwall bows his head all the same. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he says. 

She chuckles. “It’s all right. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She sighs and tilts her head back. “I don’t have much faith in the elven gods. But I have faith in the Inquisition,” she says firmly. “I trust our people. I trust our army and our scouts and everyone here who’s been preparing us to head out tomorrow.” 

He admires her tattooed profile. Arya has always placed greater stock in the goodness of her people than the grandness of the gods. As Blackwall studies the determination in her face, he can’t help but think that Thedas would be a better place if more people were like her. 

“You know who else I have faith in?” she says softly. She sits forward and cups his bearded cheek in her green and glowing palm. 

“You,” she says. “I’m not afraid of tomorrow. I can face down anything that comes at us, because you’ll be there with me.” 

Her eyes are warm and deep and bright, and Blackwall exhales heavily as he presses his cheek into her palm. She is right about that; he will be there by her side, with his sword and shield in hand and his heart on his sleeve. He’ll defend her until his dying breath, because she’s the woman who gives him life. 

He rises to his knees and pulls her close, and she slides to the edge of the step and parts her legs so he can settle himself between them. He wraps his arms around her waist and savours the tightness of her arms around his neck. Arya presses her cheek to his, and he lets his eyes drift shut as he breathes in her embrace.

She rubs her nose against his own in a sweet and slow caress, and Blackwall releases a long and leisurely sigh. The tightness in his shoulders is easing, loosening and lightening with every second he spends in her arms. As he clutches her close, he realizes that it _was_ foolish to come to the chapel, but not for the reasons he’d thought. 

He came here in search of comfort. He wanted reassurance in the light of the battle to come. But in the bed he shares with Arya, in the uninhibited heat of her arms, he had that reassurance all along. 

He kisses her cheek, then buries his face against her soft and fragrant neck. Her loose robe is sliding apart, and he presses his lips to her exposed collarbone. Without opening his eyes, he smoothes his hands carefully from her bare calves up to her knees. “I thought you were cold,” he murmurs; indeed, her skin is cool beneath his palms.

“I was,” she says. She shuffles closer still, her legs parting wider as she strokes the back of his neck. She places a kiss on his hair, then presses her lips to his ear and whispers. “I’m not anymore.” 

His palms are on her thighs. He slowly slides them higher, and his eyebrows rise with growing surprise as he notices something unexpected: no other fabric is meeting his fingers. No linen tunic, no slippery silken slip… 

He swallows hard. His errant fingers slide higher, his thumbs stroking her tender inner thighs, and then her breath catches in a tiny gasp. 

Desires blooms in his belly. His eyes dart up to her face. “You’re… you’re naked beneath this robe?” he rasps. 

She nods. Her fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think we’d be down here this long,” she breathes. 

He exhales heavily against her neck. Heat is spilling through his limbs, trickling down his throat and swelling between his legs, pulsing through his palms and spurring his hands to untie the loose belt of her wine-red robe. 

She leans back slightly, palms braced on the statue’s steps and her eyes steady on his face. Carefully and breathlessly, he slides the two halves of her robe apart. 

The candlelight flickers across her body, casting shadows and shades of gold across her bare skin. Blackwall stares at her, scanning her from her throat to her thighs in a slow and reverent sweep. She’s exquisite, a beautiful gilded figure of perfection, and he drinks her in until every birthmark and every scar is captured at the backs of his eyes. 

His gaze comes to rest between her legs, and she lifts her hips and slides her thighs apart. It is a clear sign of welcome, an invitation to do more than look, but to Blackwall’s surprise, his Arya doesn’t speak. No carnal commands fall from her carmine lips, none of the usual demands for satisfaction or for his torrid touch; she simply looks at him, silent but for the deep and eager breaths that ghost between her parted lips.

He reaches toward her and reverently strokes her breast. She lifts her chest toward his hand, pressing her budded nipple toward his palm, and still her eyes stay on his face, waiting and watchful for his next move. 

His fingers roll across her nipple, tugging the tender bud until she whimpers softly with need. He strokes her other breast, then slides his hands along her ribs. Blackwall’s hands are brutish and blunt, but Arya’s skin is soft and smooth as the silk he was expecting to find beneath her dressing down. With every breathless second, every tender stroke of his hands, she arches toward him more, and Blackwall watches the hallowed waves of her hips with an aching appreciation.

She bites her lips and twists her hips, and his gaze falls between her legs again. Her lower lips are slick and shining, glittering in the candlelight like an offering to entice his humble mouth, and Blackwall takes his cue. 

He slides down to kneel on the lowest step of the dais. Reverently he places his palms on her thighs, then bows his head over Arya’s perfectly presented form and kisses the heavenly heat between her thighs.

The plumpness of her folds against his lips… Maker’s balls, he’s unworthy, and he always has been. But Arya has offered herself to him night after night and month after month, and he’s powerless to do anything but accept her precious gift. 

She gasps and rests her hand on his hair, and her soft caress is like a benediction. He kisses her again, deep soft kisses that worship her heated flesh. He savours her nectar on his lips like the blessing that it is, then devotes himself to her pleasure, lapping deeply and carefully until her flavour anoints his tongue. 

Arya bows her back and spreads her legs as he worships her with his mouth. The sharpness of her breath is rising, and her fingers are tightening in his hair, and with every sign of her rising need, he presses forth with the fervency of his devotion. His kisses are his offerings and his tongue on her flesh is a heated prayer. He has no need for gods, for the Maker or His bride. All that Blackwall needs is splayed before him, his lover’s flesh beneath his hands and the privilege of her pleasure on his tongue. 

Here in Andraste’s chapel, kneeling at the Herald’s perfect elven feet and chasing the pleasure that lives between her legs, Blackwall has never felt so close to the divine. 

She presses her fist to her mouth to muffle her cry of rapture, and Blackwall holds her hips as she shudders beneath his mouth. He eases her down with gentle kisses and careful little licks, and when her body grows still and lax, he places one last light kiss below her navel. 

She strokes his beard, and he lifts his face to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her lips are red, and she’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. 

He sits back on his knees and offers her his hand. “May I take you to bed, my lady?” he asks. 

That cheeky little dimpled smile flashes across her lips. “Always so polite, Ser Blackwall,” she purrs, then her face grows serious again. “You’re sure you’re finished here?”

He nods, then rises to his feet. He offers her his hand again, and as he pulls her to his feet, he doesn’t bother to look at the statue of Andraste. 

He slides his arm around Arya’s waist. “Yes,” he whispers. “I got exactly what I needed.” 

He admires her mischievous smile, then gallantly ushers her toward the door as she securely ties her robe. He opens the door to let her pass, and as she slides past him, she gently strokes his cheek. 

He lets the chapel door swing shut behind them, leaving them in darkness, but Blackwall has no need for candles when he follows the glimmering light of Arya’s verdant palm.

There is only one woman he worships, and it’s the one who holds his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you care to stop by! :)


End file.
